


Proof

by AlphaCygni



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cardassia, Enemies to Friends, Episode: s03e05 Second Skin, Interspecies Book Club, M/M, Obsidian Order, POV Elim Garak, POV Julian Bashir, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 81,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaCygni/pseuds/AlphaCygni
Summary: Enabran Tain has retired, and Garak has been second-in-command of the Obsidian Order for over three years. His next assignment is the interrogation of Cardassia’s newest detainee, a Federation doctor charged with espionage.AU in which Garak was never exiled. Set during early season 3.





	1. Chapter 1

_Now put your shields before your hearts and fight_

_With hearts more proof than shields._

               -Shakespeare, _The Tragedy of_ _Coriolanus_

_Chapter One_

The room was dark.

Soldiers always turned down the lights, assuming, he supposed, that darkness was more intimidating. But Garak knew. Long years spent in rooms like these had taught him. After the surreal trauma of intake, nothing terrorized more than full, bright light. Flooding the corners, glinting off the instruments, exposing every very _real_ detail of what was happening. What was about to happen.

 _Subtlety’s not the military way, though, is it_? Why Tain had insisted he partner with them for this assignment, Tain alone knew. As usual. His retirement hadn’t changed _that_.

Garak threw on the lights.

The man, restrained in his chair, shifted and blinked against the violent glare. A black bruise stretched across one cheek, and blood had dried along his chin. They must have taken a tooth.

He was wearing the typical intake tunic, which, absent neckridges, dipped scandalously low, exposing the man’s collarbone. Garak had quipped on several occasions that forcing prisoners to wear that muddled gray design should be torture enough, but, looking at this one, he was inclined to forget fashion just this once. The red handspread across the man’s bared neck was attractive in a macabre way, contrasting with the bronze of his skin. Human skin was fascinating. Beautiful but terribly fragile, like the petals of an Edosian orchid.

 _Focus, Elim._ It had been a long day for his mind to wander like this.

Of course it wasn’t unusual for his mind to drift in the _middle_ of an interrogation. These things were depressingly rote, and he’d discovered early on that long silences were a necessary part of the game, allowing prisoners to recover themselves or to dread what was to come. Interrogation had a rhythm, and, for the interrogator, that meant plenty of downbeat.

But this wasn’t the time for downbeat. This was the long, slow crescendo into terror. He needed presence of mind for that.

He pulled his eyes away from the man’s throat and took his seat.

“Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir. Lieutenant, junior grade. S2294-5. Federation _citizen_ ,” the human’s voice grated. Perhaps two days without water, if Garak was any judge.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He crossed his legs and watched as the man’s eyes finally braved his own. And what eyes they were, light and thick as Betazoid honey. The quiver of fear in them did not diminish their beauty: it enhanced it, limned its warmth in frailty. Everything about this human looked easy to break.

The man repeated the same information. This time his gaze didn’t falter.

 _Perhaps looks will be deceiving_ , _then,_ he thought with pleasure.

“Doctor…” He glanced down at the padd as if having to remind himself of the name. “…Bashir. While I appreciate your enthusiasm, you seem to be laboring under the assumption that you are a prisoner of war.”

His brow furrowed.

“You are _not_ a prisoner of war. In fact, as you may recall, the Federation and Cardassia are no longer _at_ war. You have been arrested for violation of Cardassian law. My little office here is merely a stop on your way to sentencing and trial.”

 “Violating Cardassian _law_?” The way he spat the word ‘law’ betrayed everything he thought about Cardassia and her justice system.  “What law am I meant to have violated exactly?”

“You attempted to access classified files, Doctor. That is a serious offense. The punishment is …” He paused, hoping to strike the string of the word precisely. “Severe.”

For a Cardassian, attempting to access classified information would mean death. But then, most crimes on Cardassia did, one way or another. For this man, Garak guessed, the sentence would be commuted. The Federation took a dim view of capital punishment, and, despite its espousal of ‘live and let live’ philosophies, it tended to frown upon its citizens being put to death, even if called for by the law of the land. More so when the offender was a doctor and a Starfleet officer. And by now, Central Command had grown quite adept at stopping _just_ short of war. They marched up to the line, but they knew how not to cross it. That seemed to suit all parties just fine.

Not, of course, that a prison sentence on Cardassia was preferable to death. But that sort of nuance was lost on the Federation.

“I didn’t access any classified files,” the man insisted.

“Yes, that’s why I said ‘attempting.’ Luckily you were unsuccessful, or I doubt you would have arrived at my doorstep in such…pristine condition.”

Garak no longer asked himself the obvious question in these situations. After years of interrogations, he’d quieted that part of his mind. Those brought to him held secrets: secrets that might benefit Cardassia. It was his job to learn them. The person’s crimes, if there were any, were none of his concern. That was for the archons to decide.

For him the prisoner was a vault, and it was his job to get inside. Some vaults had to be pried open slowly, with ever-increasing pressure. Some opened only with immediate and repeated brute force. Some could be handled delicately, locks picked with subtlety, leaving the vault itself unharmed. At least on the outside.

He hoped that’s how this one would be. He’d hate to damage an outside so lovely.

“I don’t know about you, but I need a cup of tea.” He stood suddenly, and the human flinched. _Good. You’re not as calm as you seem_. “Could I interest you in a cup? We have red leaf as well as Tolian black. Red leaf tea, if you’ve never had it, is quite delicious. Sweet, with an astringent finish.”

When the other man didn’t respond, he shrugged and called out the door for a pot. They always had some waiting for him.

What he really wanted was a glass of kanar, but that would have to wait a few hours yet. He wasn’t in the habit of drinking so early in the afternoon, but today had already worked its way into his skull and spread the first white tendrils of a headache. Briefing after briefing, report after report. And those damned junior operatives. Its own kind of torture, ironically enough.

Yes, what he needed was a bottle of _breet_ -vintage and a good book. He’d just cracked open the newest enigma tale by Korit Mar, and the duller moments of his last briefing had found him mulling whether the Praetor’s wife was plotting her husband’s downfall. She _did_ seem a bit too shrewd behind that veneer of virtue, and Mar liked to go for the ruthless, dispassionate ending.

 _Precisely how I expect this will end_.  He frowned down at the data padd with the prisoner’s profile.

Silence was an invaluable tool for any interrogator, these early silences especially so. Prisoners filled silence with their own fears, their own expectations, and, if you were patient, the briefest cut of an eye, or words blurted to fill the yawning quiet could tell you everything you needed to know.

This man stayed silent, eyes fierce but steady. _Those damned eyes_.

In a different time and a different place, he might have struck up a conversation with a man like this. They might have shared tea then, too, but he would have smiled, inched in with charm and leaned close to feel the warmth of that mammalian body. He might even have indulged a whim and allowed their hands to brush just to get a feel of human skin against his fingertips.

Tea was a welcome distraction from that line of thought.

Matter-of-factly, without comment, he freed the prisoner’s hands and proffered a steaming cup of tea.

 The man’s brow knit again.

 _Your face is like a book_ , _Doctor. I do pity you this next bit._

 “No, thank you.”

He didn’t withdraw the cup. “I wouldn’t make that decision so blithely, Doctor. I can assure you that this is the last scrap of comfort you’ll be offered for quite some time.”

That thought sunk in. “How do I know you didn’t put something in it?”

 _Very good, Doctor_. He wasn’t quite as naïve as those doe-eyes made him seem. “I’d give you my word, but I doubt that would mean much. I _am_ drinking from the same pot. I…could trade cups with you, if you insist on being paranoid.”

“I _insist_.”

With a chuckle, Garak took a small sip from the cup and then handed it across. Even so, the man watched to be sure Garak continued drinking before he raised it to his own lips. Once he had, however, he sighed with relief, and, despite the heat managed to down it all in three gulps.

Garak yielded to the silence again, glad to see the tea having its desired effect. The coiled tension in the man’s shoulders loosened slightly, and his voice no longer strained.

“I’m afraid, Mister—oh, you haven’t told me your name.”

Garak simply smiled.

“Well, _sir_ , I must tell you that I don’t know what you hope to accomplish with this interrogation. I’m a doctor. I’m not privy to military secrets or ship deployments or anything remotely useful. Unless you’d like to hear about the new Klaestroni technique for burn treatment, I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you.”

“A man with no secrets? How rare.”

“Perhaps in your line of work.” A brittle smile that faded almost before it surfaced.

Even for the shadow of a smile it was striking. “It’s standard protocol to bring Starfleet prisoners through interrogation before trial. Practical, you see. And intelligence offered during interrogation can have a…mitigating effect on sentencing.” He wasn’t sure if this doctor was the sort to offer information in exchange for leniency. His gut said no, but it didn’t hurt to try. As much as a dark, instinctive part of him stirred at the idea of a breaking a man so beautiful, he found to his surprise that the greater part hoped to spare him an unpleasant experience. _At least at my hands._

 “Mitigating or not, I don’t have any secrets to tell.”

Garak’s eyes flicked to the chrono on the wall. About three minutes. _How to stall…_

“Have you ever seen a hound race, Doctor? Racing hounds are marvelous creatures. Generation after generation bred for speed and strength.”

The Doctor remained guarded. “I’m afraid we don’t get much in the way of Cardassian entertainment.”

“Pity. And it seems unlikely you’ll be taking in much entertainment while you’re here. Well, then, let me enlighten you. We have two sorts of hound races, Doctor. Races in which hounds are led by riders, which can be quite a thrill if one is of a gambling disposition.” He sipped his tea, wondering idly if the the human was a gambler or not. _Yes, I think he might be._ “The second type of racing hound, however, is led by nothing more than an incredible and finely-trained sense of smell.  At the start of a race, a tiny drop of vole pheromone is placed at the finish line, and the hounds spring from the gates. They can sense even that single drop from over fifty porsens away.” He sipped and measured the pause. _One_ , _two, three._ “They train men like me the same as those racing hounds, Doctor. I could smell your secrets before I even opened the door. While you’re telling me that you have none, your face, your eyes, every single thing about you tells a different story. You _stink_ of secrets.”

The spark in the other man’s eyes confirmed it. He was guarding something, hiding it as close and as desperate as a mother her babe.

His very own little enigma tale. _I know you’re guilty, Doctor. But of what exactly?_

“I don’t have any secrets that would benefit Cardassia,” he amended. “I’m a _doctor_.”

Garak was no longer listening. He could sense the moment, like the pressure building before a sandstorm. It was time to press. “What is your position within Starfleet?”

“Oh, Cardassian intelligence _must_ be better than that.”

“Answer the question, Doctor.”

Something in Garak’s eyes must have convinced him. “I’m the Chief Medical Officer on Deep Space Nine. Formerly Terok N--”

“I’m familiar with it.” Ancestors, if he never stepped foot on that pile of _s’sahmung_ again it would be too soon.  “And prior to your work there?”

“I was at Starfleet Medical.”

 _My, he_ is _young_. Garak glanced at the padd to confirm. Twenty-nine years. A child.  “Where you graduated at the top of your class, yes?”

“Second from the top, actually.”

“Interesting.”

“Is it?”

Garak didn’t respond. It _was_ interesting. The human was intelligent, clearly, but there was more than that. A man with the academic record he saw in the dossier could have had any posting Starfleet had to offer. He’d chosen a second-rate space station on the edge of Federation space, where he’d be more likely to treat skinned knees and bar brawl injuries than do innovative research. The doctor was a man who liked adventure, who liked the edge, the _frontier_.

But was he prepared for it?

“What do you know about CPP technology, Doctor?”

He swallowed. “I’m familiar with the basics.”

“With its uses?”

He nodded.

“Excellent. That saves me from a rather tedious explanation of what the implant at the base of your skull will do. Suffice it to say, I’m hoping it will not be necessary, but I feel it’s sporting to be sure all parties know what’s at stake.”

He pushed a button built into the console of his chair. The doctor collapsed to the floor, convulsing. After several seconds, screams descended into a strangled series of gasps.  

 Garak glanced up at the chrono again. _Any moment now._ He allowed the other man to writhe for a moment longer before clicking the technology off.

“And now you know _more_ than the basics.” He took the last swallow of his tea and poured a second cup while the doctor stilled at his feet. “Please, take your time.”

This portion of an interrogation always comforted him. When he stepped into a room, he never _truly_ knew who he would meet. Sometimes it was a familiar face. Sometimes it was the face of a child. Sometimes it was a species he’d never even known existed. But he always knew how this part would go. It could be the strongest, most stalwart Gul in the First Order or the tiniest wisp of a woman: they all responded to the first fiery touch of the CPP the same way. Pain was the great leveler.

The doctor took several minutes to regain his composure and sit once again, shivering, in his chair. Though he had wiped them away, Garak spied the shining smear of tears on the man’s cheek. For a moment, he looked as if he might attempt to lunge at his tormentor, but Garak’s face dissuaded him. He wouldn’t have been the first to end up with a broken arm that way. Stronger men had stayed down longer.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Doctor. That is a necessary step. I hope it won’t prove necessary again.”

Hate blazed in the Doctor’s eyes. It was magnificent.

“Do you have children, Doctor Bashir?”

He shook his head.

“A wife?”

Again.

He paused, considering the best way to test it. It had to be something the man would _never_ deign to answer otherwise. “When was the last time you had sexual contact with a female, Doctor?”

The Doctor’s face was a picture of disgust, but the answer came as easily as if Garak had asked him the weather. “Nineteen days ago.” He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“And with a male?”

“Nine years, seven months, eighteen days.”

_How very…exact._

Garak sat back and ran that response over in his mind, following all its conclusions to their logical ends. The idea, barely formed, spread over him slowly, like the first warm rays of a dawning sun.

“What the hell have you done to--” the man began to fume before his face lit with understanding. “Oh God, the tea.”

Garak had taken the suppressor hypo earlier in the morning. He hadn’t actually expected the man to accept the tea, but the Doctor should be glad. The serum was most effective when the prisoner didn’t fight its effects from the start, and it was well and truly coursing through the man’s veins now. It might just save him from another jolt of the CPP. “Always trust your first instinct, Doctor. It’s usually right.”

The man produced a number of swears the UT didn’t translate.

Garak took the moment to reevaluate the landscape surrounding Prisoner 462, looking over the dossier with new eyes. _Second_ in his class at Starfleet Medical. _Bronze_ winner for singles at the Sol Racquetball Invitational in 2366. _Co-_ awardee of Starfleet’s immunological fellowship during his junior year. Line after line of impeccable achievements always culminating in a final round stutter. A player fouled, a nerve mistaken. When first he’d noticed, he’d assumed it bespoke a nervousness of disposition. An inability to perform under pressure. But now…the design became clear, like watching a magician after you’ve learned his trick.

Yes, that _was_ the sort of secret a Starfleet officer would keep white knuckled next to his heart.

And it certainly changed the tenor of what would happen in this room.

Clearing his throat, Garak set down his cup. “As a doctor I’m sure you know that no truth serum works totally. Most, including the one in your tea, merely lower certain levels of inhibition and control normally at play.”

The doctor seethed, refusing to look up from his hands.

“For instance, I’m sure that under normal circumstances, when asked about the date of your last intimate encounter with a male, you might have had the wherewithal to answer ‘I don’t recall’ or ‘I don’t know…nine years maybe?’ I can see from your dossier you’ve been quite careful.”

His gaze drifted up. It was opaque, but behind those honeyed eyes, Garak sensed fear.

“Has no one ever suspected?”

No answer.

“Let’s see…cognitive testing at Starfleet Academy indicated giftedness, but nothing too far outside the norms. Reflexes—“

Without warning, Garak launched the padd straight at the doctor’s head. At so close a range, it shouldn’t have been possible, and yet, the other man caught it with ease.

“—certainly a _bit_ above average.”

The doctor closed his eyes. _Like a child trying to hide_.

No, not like a child. Garak’s heart rumbled to life in his chest. His muscles had twitched to wakefulness the moment the other man’s hand had wrapped around the padd. _This man could prove dangerous_. It wouldn’t do to think of him as a child anymore.

Carefully, before continuing, Garak made sure his finger rested gently but surely on the activation switch for the CPP. “You’ve been keeping this secret from Starfleet, then?”

Silence.

“If I’m not mistaken, their official position is that no genetically engineered individual would be allowed to serve. Though I don’t believe it would surprise anyone on Cardassia to learn that Starfleet had revealed scales of a different color.”

Garak knew the face of a man who was done talking. The thin line of lip, pushed tight. The hard glaze of the eyes, the rigid square of the jaw. The doctor had reached his limit. _For now_.

He’d need to corroborate this, of course. He might be able to find the seams, the proof, in the man’s DNA—if there were any to be found. Collecting it might have been tricky if not for…

He pushed the button and the other man collapsed again, all choked screams and rigid muscles.

As efficiently as he could, Garak plucked a few hairs from the man’s head. For good measure, he took a hypo of blood as well in case the idiots at intake hadn’t followed the collection protocols. It happened all the time, sadly. Intake was full of the nephews and cousins of legates who weren’t sharp enough for other work.

When Garak clicked the CPP off again, the other man’s breaths were nothing but ragged half-sobs.

“Doctor, I’m afraid that will have to conclude our conversation for today.” The man remained cradled against himself at Garak’s feet. “But I feel sure we’ll see each other again _very_ soon.”

On his way out the door, he made sure to order triple guards placed on the man at all times. The last thing Cardassia needed was a Khan Singh on its hands.

He examined the few wisps of dark hair between his fingers.

 _But a Khan Singh_ in _our hands…_

He found his headache had evaporated, his steps light as he found his way out the door and into his skimmer.

Perhaps he could do without the kanar tonight after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the uncommonly impressive fanfic I'd read by so many in this little corner of DS9 fandom, I sat down about two months ago intending to write a speck of AU Garashir goodness. Somehow I've ended up with this, which has quickly become an angsty monster-in-progress. This is the first thing I've tried to write in, oh, more than ten years, so I hope it isn't as snarly and awkward as it feels at times. 
> 
> I wish I could say that updates will happen regularly and with Cardassian-like efficiency, but alas, I have a less than efficient life, and, on top of that, my writing muscles are all still a bit creaky, so everything takes a little longer than it should. 
> 
> Each chapter alternates between POV Garak and POV Bashir, so next up will be a chapter with our dear doctor. Poor thing. 
> 
> Thanks to anyone who is kind enough to read, kudos, or comment.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

It was no coincidence that Julian dreamed of that day.

He’d hurried home, eager to tell his parents, eager to see their faces. He’d been prepping for the exam for _months—_ obsessing really. When the headmistress handed him his results, they’d exceeded anything he imagined possible. And, judging by the open confusion in her face, she felt the same. The best results any student at the campus had ever earned, she said. The best score any student in the _country_ had earned, in fact. As he’d held the padd, scanning across each chart and graph, maxed out across domains, he knew that Starfleet was no longer a dream. It would become his reality.

Mum would cry, probably. God, he might cry, too. And Dad would be proud. He wouldn’t say it, but Julian would know.

They were waiting for him at the door.

Mum’s eyes were swollen and pink, as if she’d been crying already.

_I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Aren’t I_ supposed _to do well? Try my hardest?_

_Of course, Jules. But this…you did_ too _well. If you’d just taken a little longer or…_

_How can I have done_ too _well?_

That was the moment they’d had to tell him everything. He’d sat and listened, dismay and anger opening up inside him, a sinkhole into which he could feel his dream slowly sliding...

_We did it for you, Jules. We wanted the best for you._

_You wanted the best for_ you, _Mom. And don’t call me Jules. Jules is gone._

He was what they had made him, no longer Jules, but Julian, the perfect son they’d built from the broken pieces of the inferior.

In the end, they’d had to lie and say he cheated. That the pressure had gotten to him, and he’d made a mistake. The headmistress had been more than understanding. She’d allowed him to sit the exam again the next year, everything delayed. For the first time he’d had to fake it, to monitor himself. He got a few questions wrong. He took his time.  He’d never felt more ashamed. Or enraged.

But it was good enough for Starfleet. And not _too_ good.

Never be _too_ good, Jules. That’s when they’ll come for you.

And now they had.

 

***********************

He woke to the hollow buzz of the door opening. On instinct, he slid to the farthest corner. Booted feet had a tendency to greet his sleeping head.

This time, however, he was surprised to see a plate of food. It must have been what someone considered an approximation of breakfast, though the fruit was a fierce shade of turquoise and the bread had a consistency closer to thick pudding. But there _was_ coffee. Genuine Terran coffee. He hesitated only a moment before deciding to throw caution to the wind. Coffee, after five days in the same prison cell, was a luxury he couldn’t turn down.

Gnawing through the almost-bread and leaning into the corner, he considered his options. The Cardassian interrogator sure seemed to have figured it out. He’d taken hair and blood, so he must be trying to confirm. Of course, the doctors who’d altered him had been more than careful. They’d left no obvious indications of tampering: Julian had examined it himself several times to be sure there was no chance of Starfleet noticing.  No one would spot anything out of the ordinary if they weren’t already looking for it.

But they would know precisely what they were looking for.

What would they do, he wondered, with a human augment?

Make him a lab rat, probably, at least for a time. The thought of becoming a Cardassian experiment was terrifying enough, but even worse was the idea of advancing Cardassian genetic engineering. If human augments had proven deadly, aggressive, and unstable, God only knew the havoc Cardassian augments would wreak.

Commander Sisko must be working to get him freed. The charges were completely fabricated, and it was only a matter of time before the Federation would put that to the Cardassian government. He just had to run out the clock as best he could.

Unconsciously, he fingered the small lump at the base of his skull. He didn’t know how well he would hold up if he found himself in that room again. With… _him_. A stiff jolt spread through his body, a remembered echo of pain.

_You’ll have to find a way to resist, Julian. You can’t answer any questions._

Easier said than done, of course. From the moment that interrogator had stepped through the door, he’d felt himself being dissected, cut apart, bit by bit, though there’d been no knife. He was the wounded antelope circled by the lion, and he felt sure the Cardassian would devour him if given enough time.

_So let him devour you, Julian. Just hold your tongue._

As if on cue, the door opened again, and the guards—there were more of them this time—forced the hypo to this neck.

The world dissolved into darkness.

******************

The first thing he saw were those eyes, blue and pitiless.

No…not pitiless, perhaps that’s what made them dangerous. There was an affability and an intelligence there that gave depth to the cruelty -- the shadow that gave the painting its dimension.

He moved his hands and found them restrained. _Intelligence indeed_. He was certain he wouldn’t be able to overpower the interrogator, but the reapplied restraints meant the other man felt at least a little fear on that score. Augments had a reputation, after all.

“Dr. Bashir. I’m so glad to see you again.” He sat, legs crossed, smile oddly warm. “You’re looking much better. I trust you’ve not been mistreated since our last encounter?”

In truth, apart from the monotony of living five days in a single room, he’d fared well. They’d brought him water regularly, and, for the last four days, some variety of nutritional supplement. They’d even brought him his clothes again, laundered and mended. “It’s been _lovely_. Cardassian hospitality is unparalleled.”

“You enjoyed the coffee, I hope. I confess I enjoy it myself. One of our operatives brought several cases back from the Demilitarized Zone recently, and it’s become quite the fad around headquarters. A unique flavor along with excellent focus-enhancing properties.”

Julian glanced at the steaming cup sitting next to him. “Just don’t drink too much. Wouldn’t want anything to keep you up at night.”

 The Cardassian laughed—a true, full-throated laugh-- before he pressed a button on his console.

Julian flinched, but no pain came.

Instead, the restraint on his left hand opened. Seeing the amusement in his inquisitor’s eyes, his cheeks burned.

“Oh, Doctor. I was sincere when I said I hope not to use any _indelicate_ means of persuasion again.” He handed a padd across, which Julian took with his newly-freed hand. “I’ve been instructed, first, to give you this. It’s the latest official communication from Starfleet regarding your detainment and sentencing.”

Julian’s heart raced as he made his way through each line. _Regarding the abduction and continued detainment of Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir—evidence under review—terms of the Seldonis IV convention—representative of his interests—consideration of exchange—_

He looked up from the padd to find the Cardassian’s eyes boring into him. “They’ve suggested a prisoner exchange.”

“Yes, but, as I said, you are _not_ a prisoner of war, Doctor. You’re a criminal. We don’t exchange criminals. We punish them in accordance with Cardassian law.” His smile disappeared. “That, I believe, is the response Central Command has issued to this communication. In addition to the scandalous discovery that Starfleet has been using augments to spy on Cardassia.”

The chasm inside him yawned again. That was it, then. Almost fifteen years of meticulous care and secrecy, exploded. Starfleet would know. They would begin to scratch at the surface of the accusation. They would bring his parents in for questioning, and they would _know_. His career was over, to be sure, but beyond that... Even if he made it off of Cardassia, even if Starfleet would fight to keep an augment out of Cardassian hands, he could end up in a prison of a different sort. Sure, they wouldn’t call it a prison, but it would be.

“I’m not a spy,” he murmured, knowing it was useless. God, the number of nights he’d spent reading those ridiculous spy novels. And look at him now.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” the Cardassian said, amused. “You’d make a _terrible_ spy. But luckily for you, we have all the spies we need. What Cardassia needs, at the moment, is, in fact, a doctor.”

Before he could ask any questions, the Cardassian passed him another padd.

“Has your medical training familiarized you with _chom’nu_ , Doctor?”

Any other time and place, he might have squinted and pretended to try and recall. But there was no longer any need. “An RNA virus. A sort of Cardassian analog to the influenza viruses we have on Earth. Causes digestive and respiratory distress, nausea, scale discoloration, and high fever.”

The Cardassian’s face betrayed vague admiration. “Yes. We normally see an increase in cases from Sarat through Rijak, when the weather is at its coolest. For the last several years, the Medical Bureau has experimented with vaccines to help combat outbreaks, and we have at least one medication that seems to lessen symptoms in those infected. Most winters, _chom’nu_ takes only a few thousand lives.”

He looked over the information on the padd. A more technical reiteration of what the Cardassian had said.

 “This winter, however, the Assam province on the northern continent experienced a particularly virulent _chom’nu_ season. The vaccines sent to the province have been ineffective, and our usual antiviral treatments have not been able to stabilize symptoms. And, though we are almost into the summer months, cases have continued to mount.”

When he paged forward on the padd, he saw the crux of the problem. The virus had mutated, become resistant to the antivirals and no longer capable of prevention using current vaccines. As he glanced through the dry statistics of the number dead, his heart sank. _They don’t need a doctor: they need an undertaker._

“When it became clear that the outbreak might reach epidemic proportions,” the Cardassian continued, reading his grave expression, “the government quarantined Assam immediately. But as I’m sure you know, quarantines—“

“Are not foolproof,” the doctor finished. Some of the infected had left before the quarantine could be instated, and the strain had spread across three provinces on the northern continent. The infection rate denoted on the padd was more than worrying.

“The northern continent has been cut-off completely, and, for now, the spread of the infection has been contained within the Assam, Bakai, and Hirun provinces. The Medical Bureau estimates that in six months, at least half of the population there will be infected, and approximately one-third of those infected will die, leaving the casualty estimate at—“

“Two million, seven hundred and sixty thousand, four hundred and five,” he murmured, with barely a pause. “Give or take.”

“Y…es. Those provinces are sparsely-populated, but the loss would be deeply felt, as it’s also the region of Cardassia in which agriculture is a thriving--”

“Ahh, yes. It’s not a tragic loss of life: it’s a tragic loss of _labor_.” He glanced down again at the padd. On it was a picture of an Assami medical center, but a pile of the dead loomed in the background of the frame. The body at the top was that of a child.

“Lives are lost every day, Doctor. This loss would be a tragedy to _Cardassia_.”

“Of _course_.” For a moment, he had allowed himself to become absorbed in the problem and had forgotten where he was and with whom he was speaking. “I’m so very sorry for the loss to _Cardassia_ , but I fail to see what this has to do with me. Your augment _spy_.”

“The Medical Bureau is working tirelessly on anything that might help those affected by the outbreak as well as any means of prevention should the worst occur and the infection spread beyond the far north. As yet, they haven’t had much success on either front. Central Command feels they might benefit from a fresh perspective.”

“Ahh, the ‘fresh perspective’ of a Starfleet augment.”

“And a gifted doctor, if your dossier is to be believed.”

He pretended to take a moment to thumb through the further notes on the padd while he considered, shakily, what the Cardassians could possibly have in mind. He was never opposed to helping save lives: in fact, it was the reason he had guarded his secret so very long—so that he would be allowed to continue using his gifts in the service of life. But he knew better than to trust this, better than to trust the man sitting across from him, innocently sipping coffee. There was something—

The realization was a cold one. “This is why they brought me here, isn’t it?”

The other man appeared, for the splittest of seconds, surprised. It faded almost the moment it played across his face, but it had been there, and Julian had seen it. _Didn’t expect me to suss that out, eh?_

“That’s why they fabricated the charges. They needed a doctor. And God forbid they should simply ask for the Federation’s help.”

It made perfect sense now. He’d been coming back from a burn conference on Klaestron IV when they’d taken him. Odo had given him a precise shuttle route and cautioned him to spend as little time as possible crossing through the edge of Cardassian space. Cardassian doctors had been at the conference, so they would have known he was there. They would have had operatives waiting. No, the Cardassian “doctors” had probably been operatives themselves, damn them. Planting the manufactured evidence of his espionage, no doubt.

The other man’s face was unreadable again, and he pressed on as if he hadn’t heard. “If you prove integral to the Medical Bureau’s efforts with the _chom’nu_ outbreak on the northern continent, the Central Command has agreed to find itself…amenable to an exchange with the Federation. You would be allowed to return to Deep Space Nine.”

“Oh, how generous, after exposing me and annihilating my career. And am I meant to take Central Command at its word? They’re going to have to send me back to the Federation sooner or later, whether I help or not. Starfleet won’t let you get away with prosecuting me.”

He appeared to consider this. “Perhaps. But I can tell you that, if that’s the case, Central Command will ensure that ‘sooner or later’ is a _very_ long time coming. And _you_ should entertain the idea that Starfleet may have more to gain by disavowing any knowledge of you.” The other man must have read the worry in his face because he continued with fervor. “Tell me, Doctor. If you were a Starfleet admiral, and the Cardassian government had, in custody, seeming proof that Starfleet had sent a highly-illegal and highly-dangerous human augment into Cardassian space, what would _you_ do? Working too ardently for the return of such a person might be seen as a sign of guilt in and of itself. Might it not be easier to distance yourself from the augment, blame him, declare him rogue? Might you be tempted to avoid the confrontation and leave him to whatever justice Cardassia metes out for such entirely unsanctioned actions?” The Cardassian took another sip of coffee. “I’m not sure that Starfleet will go wading into that uncertain territory for someone with your…messy background.”

And _that_ was the cold truth. He’d known since that day at fifteen years old, when he’d stayed up all night running through the database entries on genetic augments and the Eugenics wars. This was not an area where the Federation could be counted on for equanimity. His parents had made him formidable, but they’d also made him a criminal. And, in an instant, in the eyes of Starfleet, he had gone from being a tragic abducted doctor to a very embarrassing problem _._

_Commander Sisko won’t feel that way_. At least, he wanted to believe that. Sisko might be angry at him for hiding this, but he wouldn’t let it get in the way of what was right. Nor would Kira. Or Dax. They would still be working for him.

He forced himself to meet his inquisitor’s smug gaze. “Perhaps Starfleet admirals might think so. The people I work with will _not_. They will come for me, sooner or later.” He was surprised to hear the steel of certainty in this voice. It was far stronger than he felt.

“Well, then, while you’re waiting for them to arrive, you have a choice.” The Cardassian stood, hands behind his back. He was smiling again. “You can pass the time enjoying the hospitality of Cardassia’s prison system—and I can assure you, there’ll be no more coffee and _leejat_ fruit—or you help us with our _chom’nu_ problem. In considerably more comfortable environs.”

“A comfortable prison is _still_ a prison.”

“What a meaningless observation,” the Cardassian chuckled. “You would have a room, Level I access to all relevant medical data, and any approved laboratory equipment the Medical Bureau can spare.”

“Should you be giving me access to files? After all the _laws_ I’ve violated?” he spat, beginning to feel the inevitability of the choice spiraling in on him.

“Oh, you’ll be living under the close observation of a high-ranking agent of the Obsidian Order. You’ll be in no position to violate anything other than, perhaps, good fashion sense.” He gestured absently to the doctor’s clothes.

He opened his mouth to object before he realized how absurd it was to feel offended. _Dax_ did _tell you that the orange was rather garish..._

“So, Doctor…what will it be? Will you spend the intervening months helping save a few million lives or would you care to go back to contemplating the number of bricks in the floor of your cell?”

He swallowed. The notion of a choice in this circumstance was a lie. He didn’t believe for one second that the Cardassian government would just let him get in a shuttle and leave if he was a good little boy, but it made him equally uneasy to consider leaving those millions to die if he had it in his power to help. And, as much as the notion of living under the nose of the Obsidian Order made his skin crawl, there was more dread in returning to the dreary, stripped-clean box of his cell. “I’d like a day to think about it.”

“I would advise against any efforts to stall in this matter. When I leave, I won’t return for at least another five days. I hate to imagine what sort of treatment you might receive while you were…contemplating.”

Their eyes locked. The other man’s gaze remained steadfast in its intensity, but he felt, inexplicably, as if he spied pity there as well. Something in that cold and distant face had changed; the man was reaching out, willing him to say yes.

“Don’t be stubborn, Doctor. I assure you, no one will suffer for it but you. And, of course, the northern province.”

He took a deep breath. “Alright. Whatever I can do to help, within the confines of Federation ethics.”

“Of course, Doctor. No one would want you to do anything….unethical.” The words _other than what you’ve already been doing for the last fifteen years_ went unsaid but understood.

They left the room, which he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of doing in a conscious state. The halls were as featureless as the room had been, and it wasn’t until they’d wound their way up several flights of stairs that any natural light at all eked through. Outside, the unfiltered shine of the sun across his skin was almost enough to make him cry, and while the heat was heavy, a breeze combed its delightful fingers through his hair. When the skimmer pulled up in front of them, he felt a pang of disappointment, hoping they might walk and enjoy the open freshness of day. He’d been locked inside a box for far too long.

The inquisitor guided him into the backseat, and, sure that his hands were restrained firmly once more, made to close the door.

“What, not even a ‘goodbye’?” he sniped, as he shifted across the seat and put as much space as possible between them. No matter where he was bound, it would be better than under that man’s eyes. _And that damnable smile._

As if reading his thoughts, the inquisitor smiled. “Until we meet again, Doctor.”

The skimmer skittered to a start, leaving the inquisitor in its wake.

_On to the next torment, then_. He allowed himself to slump against the window and watch as Cardassia presented itself to him for the first time.

The avenues were wide and lined with brown-fronded trees, each building they passed a study in efficiency and nothing more. No artistic flourishes bordered doorways; no color interrupted the march of monochrome stone. Even the windows, all masked tight by shades, were regular, soulless squares.   The sidewalks seemed to exist only by happenstance, empty and immaculate.

It wasn’t until several blocks passed that life seemed to open up and the city began to breathe. The buildings’ curtained eyes opened, their facades dotted with small gardens and the occasional marquee in vibrant red or cool blue. Men walked hand-in-arm with ladies dressed in fabrics occasionally so flamboyant he imagined even Quark might balk.  At a corner where the skimmer paused, a stoop-backed man sold fruit from a cart. When he held one out, Julian recognized its pocked turquoise skin from his breakfast. _Leejat_ , the interrogator had called it. Delicious, like a mix of coconut and lemon.

Further on, at a local park, young children climbed the coarse, leafless trees while older children paired up at tables around them, bent in concentration over a board game that looked like backgammon at first glance. On a set of flat rocks in the sun, several young men and women lay sprawled, reading books and talking, soaking in the heat of the day.

Why hadn’t he pictured Cardassia this way? Imposing, monolithic buildings, yes. Gray-clad glinns marching to and fro, sure. The actual Cardassians, though, the ones who lived their lives in the shadow  of those buildings like bugs under a rock…they’d never figured into his imagining.

_Well, you wanted the frontier, Julian. Here it is._

The skimmer stopped outside a house that sat atop a hill like a frayed hat on a balding head.  It was the same unremarkable shade of ochre Cardassians seemed to prefer, and its single window was shuttered from the inside, uninviting. The only thing to recommend it was a strip of soil, well-kept and blooming vibrantly with the first true green Julian had seen since he’d arrived. A short-snouted animal snuffled around the edge of the garden, looking for something to eat.

As soon as the door to the skimmer opened, arid heat and the smell of city rushed inside. He blinked away what might have been sand, and took the brusque offer of a hand.

He was surprised to find that the man offering the hand was none other than the blue-eyed inquisitor.

_Of course. Of bloody course._

 “And we meet again.” The smile was an assault.

_Bashir, you’ve well and truly stepped in it this time._

He barely registered the scan card, the open door, and guiding hand on the small of his back, pushing him over the threshold.

“Welcome to my home, Doctor,” the other man said, flipping on the lights in a way that reminded Julian all too suddenly of their first meeting. “It’s not much, but I do flatter myself that it’s better than a Cardassian prison.”

 The small lump at the back of his skull ached, though no buttons had been pressed.

_I suppose we’ll see about that,_ he thought with a sigh.

The door clicked with finality behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Odd Couple on Cardassia. That's basically what I'm writing. Just with more angst. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read and kudosed and commented. I was overwhelmed by everyone's kind words, and I hope this continues to hold your interest.
> 
> Next chapter, everyone settles in at Chez Garak, and the first brief interaction with Parmak.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

It never ceased to amaze him. He’d travelled to innumerable worlds over the years, assassinated heads of state, toppled regimes, planted explosives as easily as _sarnak_ vines. He’d watched ministers beg for mercy with cool detachment and had barely batted an eye when the Tzenkethi hall had collapsed around him…at least at first.

But he still couldn’t see that heavy black door at the heart of Paldar Sector without feeling a hard tremor across the drum of his nerves.

Mila knew. She always had a cup of tea at the ready.

He’d suspected, after reviewing the doctor’s dossier, that Central Command might have collected the man in a misguided attempt to enlist his help in the _chom’nu_ debacle. What role Tain was playing in all this, however, was an unanswered question. At the revelation that their chosen doctor also happened to be an augment, Tain had at least _appeared_ surprised, though Garak had trouble imagining a reality in which Tain was surprised by anything. He’d scrolled through Garak’s notes and the doctor’s dossier, sipping at some cloying Romulan ale that had apparently become popular on Arawath. As usual, he kept his own secrets.

“It’s like betting on the runt-vole. This one’s little, but he’s dangerous. Do you think you can do it?”

“I always did like a gamble.”

Tain had made a few calls, discrete inquiries. He’d leafed through the assessment of the DNA, and Lok’s recommendations.

And he’d given the nod to Garak.

_You’re grabbing the dunesnake by the tail, Elim._ Augments were dangerous. Even the Klingons feared them. And now, with the situation the way it was—the dissident movement still bubbling below the surface, never quite refusing to die out; the whispers of threat from the Gamma Quadrant—this wasn’t the time to be taking risks. _But we need him, Elim. Be thorough, s’olat. Don’t embarrass me._

And so he’d outfitted every room in his home with emergency locking mechanisms. He’d planted video and audio devices throughout the doctor’s suite and laboratory and mapped every possible exit, down to the cracks that sometimes let laceflies through in the summer. He’d even installed a variety of calculated explosives, designed to take down the house without damaging any surrounding structures. _Better to plant one melon in spring than ten in S’Sim_ , his father had always said. Or at least the man who had called himself that.

There wasn’t a single inch of his home that Elim Garak hadn’t thoroughly prepared or a single detail he’d overlooked.

Except, of course, for the temperature.

Sweat was a human oddity he’d forgotten until he saw the beads dripping from the doctor’s brow and smelled the light bestial musk playing on the air. True summer heat was still a few weeks away, and today had been mild enough. But after only a few minutes in the concentrated warmth of the house, the human was puffing and wiping at his face with manacled hands.

 “… And this is the dining room. Normally, a Cardassian host would receive a new guest here and share a pot of tea, but I fear tea may not be appropriate at the moment.” He released the doctor’s restraints and turned to Loral, who had been waiting like a disapproving specter in the corner. “One cup of tea and one large glass of water, I think. And, if you could, adjust the environmental controls upstairs. 24 degrees Federation C.”

“We have to freeze for this balding ape?” Loral mumbled as she shuffled away to the kitchen. He must remind her that human hearing was more acute. Of course it was entirely possible she hadn’t forgotten.

 Several moments later the internal coolers whirred to life above them.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to find you something lighter—and less visually offensive—to wear.” The human was draped in whatever cotton and wool monstrosity they’d taken him in: it did little for temperature regulation and even less for his complexion. Until they could bring in a proper tailor from the shops, something from Garak’s closet would have to do. A few pairs of pants from his younger, svelter days were languishing in the back of the wardrobe: a couple of tacks in the waist and a slightly lowered hem should do the trick. Truthfully, a few hours alone with his sewing kit might prove a welcome respite.

The doctor downed his water in one throw, looking relieved. His breathing slowed slightly, and the odd ruddy flush which had begun to dust his cheeks was fading.

Convinced that would do for now, he raised his tea cup and inclined his head. “I welcome you to my home, Doctor Bashir. My household opens its arms in dutiful service.”

Seeming to recognize that something was expected of him, the human’s eyes shifted between Garak and his empty glass and Loral, who watched deadpan from across the room.  He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“The ceremony of welcoming,” Garak explained. “It’s customary for you to the thank me, but given the circumstances, I can see how that might seem a bit…disingenuous. Loral, if you could…?” He gestured towards the doctor’s empty glass.

Though the young man attempted the sort of endearing smile that often softens old ladies, Loral was unmoved. She tutted and took the glass as if it might be infectious, pinching it gingerly between two fingers and carrying it from the room at arm’s length, muttering fresh Cardasi curses under her breath.

“You’ll have to forgive my housekeeper. She’s not fond of humans. Or Starfleet. Or doctors, for that matter. This way, if you please.”

He led the other man on a quick route through the kitchen and up the stairs. With each step upwards, the air thinned, sliding its artificially cool fingers down his scales with unrelenting steel. Perhaps Loral was right: he wasn’t eager to freeze his _kajok_ off just to please the doctor either. He would have to experiment—inch the temperature up a degree or so every day to see exactly where the middle ground lay. For now, however, he’d allow the human a few hours to acclimate to everything else without worries about the heat.

The human hadn’t spoken since he’d crossed the threshold. Something in his initial expression said he must have expected breaking wheels and thumbscrews and iron maidens instead of sofas and paintings. But, after that first open surprise, he’d ambled compliantly from room to room, eyes moving empty and emotionless through the space around him. _Probably considering ways out. Escape plans. Weaknesses in my defenses._ Garak smiled to himself.

They passed the forbidding door of his office that required no explanation, followed by the library. The doctor’s eyes lightened briefly at the word, and noting it, Garak opened the door to allow him a peek inside. As the crisp scent of paper and kanar and clean sunlight washed over them, Garak spied something familiar in the other man’s face. _A reader, then_ , _Doctor?_ He pointed out several prevalent concentrations of genre: histories, philosophical treatises, literary classics, enigma tales, poetry. Eyes lingered slightly longer on the novels and the histories. _Interesting_.

Finally, they reached the two doors at the end of the hall.

“This is my room,” he said, indicating the door to their left. “And this is yours. Go on, it isn’t locked.”

Loral had done an excellent job preparing it. Just yesterday it had been veiled in dust and stuffed full of old projects, report cores long archived, and several wardrobes-worth of clothing that he’d bought yet didn’t find occasion to wear. Now the furniture stood as if it had always been so, just waiting for a new inhabitant to give it purpose. A well-appointed desk sat in one corner and a comfortable canopied bed in the other. And, by the window, a chair of oiled _ramak’s_ hide.

“You’ve your own washroom just through that door.”

The doctor was drawn, immediately, to the room’s most prominent feature—an oversized bay window that looked down on Torr Sector shrouded in the tawny morning light.

“I know you must be thinking about escape,” Garak said with enough nonchalance that the other man jerked his head around, his slender body silhouetted by the glow of the window. “You’re a Starfleet officer and a clever man besides, so it’s only natural.”

 “I—I don’t—“

“It’s what I’d be thinking about in your situation. So allow me to share a word of advice with you: _don’t_.” He stepped closer, savoring the warmth from the window amidst the chill of the coolers. “You’re considering whether you’ll have access to neuroparalytics. You’re thinking of ways out that window. Ducts. Pipes. Transporters. Let me assure you: I’ve considered it all. And if, somehow, you consider something I _haven’t_ , I’ve turned your CPP into a theta-band remote detonator. If it detects you leaving the perimeter of the house without my explicit permission, explosives will take you down, along with my home, and some significant fraction of the neighborhood, most likely. Torr Sector houses many tens of thousands, and I don’t have to tell you that explosions in such densely populated areas often result in a startling loss of life. So you can _think_ about escape all you like. But if you decide to do more than thinking, be sure you can live with that on your conscience.”

The man’s face hardened, eyes alight with naked revulsion. “You can’t be serious.”

“I wouldn’t put that to the test, my dear Doctor.” He smiled. “I recommend you sit down, relax, acquaint yourself with your accommodations, and perhaps scan through the medical data I’ve downloaded do your computer terminal. Dinner is usually around 20:30 hours in the dining room.”

 “ _Dinner_?” The human was shaking now, skin flushed again, his gaze a poniard flung with precision. “I’m a _prisoner_. You’ve abducted me, you’ve tortured me, you’ve starved and beaten me. The _only_ reason I came here instead of returning to my prison cell is because I, unlike you, care about _alleviating_ suffering. You can throw me whatever scraps you want…or not. But I _won’t_ sit at your table sipping kanar and talking about the weather.” The fury spread up him like a burning fuse, and his warm features ignited.  Garak was reminded of sitting at the blinding brilliance of a campfire.

_You should let yourself burn so brightly more often, Doctor. It suits you._

An inverse mirror, Garak felt himself relax, smile unraveling into cool civility. “I am under orders to debrief you every day, Doctor Bashir. It is part of the agreement that allows you to stay here rather than at the Kaltak confinement facility. Now, I thought it might be more _civilized_ to do that debriefing over a warm meal and a drink, conversing as two equals. But if you prefer I tie you to a chair and shine a light in your face, then by all means, we can try that instead. As you say, suffering or no suffering: it makes no difference to me.”

He let his eyes linger, sparkling, on the doctor’s just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

“Do make yourself at home, Doctor Bashir. Dinner is at 20:30 hours.”

He made sure to listen for the three bolts locking behind him as he closed the door.

 

*******************************

Garak had seen his first human when he was seven. A delegation from the Federation had come for some sort of negotiation, and Garak and his schoolmates had been out on the concourse when they toured by. He could still recall the clenching aversion in his stomach as he watched their smooth faces turn his way, simian eyes sweeping over him and his classmates as if observing animals in a zoo. One of them, a woman with bizarre copper-colored hair, had smiled at him. He hadn’t smiled back.

Afterwards, his classmate Cajal had regaled them with lurid factoids about humans. His older brother had recently joined the military and so Cajal had since become the resident expert on all things off-world. Humans, he informed them, came from a planet where water was in such abundance that they used it with vulgar abandon, even to wash away effluence. Greenery grew so aggressively that it had to be chopped down and managed, sometimes rooted out altogether. This opulence had given them unparalleled arrogance and made them wanton. Their clothing routinely bared their _solan_ , and they greeted one another by pressing their full bodies together, and even, sometimes, their lips. Their appetites for food were no less voracious. They would eat anything in sight, including, he insisted, their own young. When Garak pointed out that it was unlikely a species who ate its young would survive and thrive as the humans had, his friend merely rolled his eyes as child experts are wont to do. _They don’t eat_ all _their young_. They waited until the female had delivered a cycle of three children. Once the third child came of age, they chose the runt of the litter, the family feasting on the weakest to strengthen the whole.

Garak had been unable to sleep that night, imagining a fiery-haired human female tearing into the gray of his flesh.

That had been many years ago, and while Garak had interacted with plenty of humans since and was fairly certain they didn’t ritually eat their own young, he still had only a hazy notion of what they _did_ like to eat. The database in his replicator had only three entries under Terran dishes, and he didn’t recognize any of them. So he’d picked one at random. It smelled nice enough—a bit like _karap_ but sweeter.

He sent a message to the doctor’s comm and unbolted the door. The rest was up to him. Whether the human would come or not, he couldn’t be sure.

As he ate, he read through the briefings he hadn’t had time for that morning. Reports on Ghemor and his movements. A report from Merek who had, sixth months ago, infiltrated a ring of arms dealers who called themselves the Aspect and whom Lok insisted must have connections to a senior Council member. Merek reported that might well be the case, and Garak quickly shot him a message, advising him on next steps. Lok would be pleased.

There were a few troubling notes on the activity in the Gamma Quadrant from his Ferengi contacts. This Dominion, as they called themselves, seemed more and more menacing with each new piece of intel. Thus far, he and Lok hadn’t been able to convince anyone outside the Order of this, but Tain shared their view. It was only a matter of time before he pressured Central Command to take notice as well, retirement or not. It was an issue that would have to be dealt with sooner or later.

The last report was a liaison report from the Detapa Council enumerating their aide proposals for the northern continent. It wasn’t enough to make even a dent in the want they were experiencing, but he wasn’t surprised. Almost all the government’s efforts now centered on finding a way to prevent the _chom’nu_ from affecting the rest of Cardassia: Assam and its neighbors were a lost cause. The Council would put them on the barest of palliative care and let the disease run its course.

_The doctor won’t like that_. He didn’t seem the “cut your losses” type. He and Parmak would get along famously. Maybe _too_ famously, truth be told, but it was a bit late to worry about that now…

He smelled the human, sweat and heat, before he entered. The other man had clearly used the sonic shower, and his jaw was smoother than before. Human hair was strange, and, if Garak was honest, a bit intriguing. Human males grew or removed facial hair as they saw fit, Garak had learned, and so had left a device that claimed to be for hair removal in the doctor’s washroom, uncertain which he’d prefer.

The human looked even younger this way. “Good evening, Doctor Bashir. I’m glad you decided to join me.” He gestured to the chair and the steaming bowl across from him.

The doctor nodded stiffly. He was clearly still unenthusiastic about the prospect of dinner, but his anger had cooled, congealing into starched courtesy. He took his seat and, avoiding eye contact, looked over the bowl in front of him.

Garak couldn’t fully read the man’s expression, but he knew in an instant he must have chosen wrong. “Is something wrong, Doctor? My replicator indicated that this was a traditional Terran dish….?”

A wan grin. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it. It smells lovely. It’s just—we don’t normally eat oatmeal in the evening. It’s more of a breakfast food.”

“Ahh. I’ll amend the database.”

 “I—I mean I appreciate—and of course I’ll—”

“Please, Doctor. You needn’t concern yourself. I believe the replicator had two more Terran dishes. One of those might be to your taste..?”

“Actually, since I’ll be _visiting_ Cardassia for a while,” he said, the barest ripple of anger at the edge of the words, “I think I might enjoy sampling the local cuisine. I’ve had a few things here and there on the station. I quite liked yamok sauce.”

“I think you’ll find Cardassian cuisine has much more to offer than yamok sauce. Tonight I’m having a nice rare _zoval_ steak in a butter- _leejat_ reduction.”

“ _Leejat_ …that’s the fruit I had this morning?”

“Yes. Would you like a helping? I have enough for two.”

“It’s not from the replicator?”

“The steak is, but I prefer to make my own sauce. The replicated version is too briny for my taste, and replicated _leejat_ is a pale imitation of the fresh fruit.”

“I’d love to try it then, if you have enough to spare.”

_My, my. What a change, Doctor._ Only a few hours ago the other man had been shaking and spitting like a Rigelian tiger cub. Now he was politely requesting his meal.

On his way into the kitchen, Garak paused to watch his guest a moment, scanning for weapons or suspicious body language. Had the human found solace in an escape plan? Or in some secret means of overpowering his captor? Or had he merely seen the futility of maintaining an adversarial stance?

_Or perhaps he’s just hungry._ That was one of Cajal’s childhood factoids that Garak had observed to be true: humans _did_ concern themselves with eating a great deal. Their stomachs always seemed to be growling, and, it was well-known among those in his profession that starvation was a particularly effective tactic against humans. Cardassians could go days without noticing even a pang: want was bolted into them at their very core. But humans, in this regard, were as vulnerable as their ridgeless necks.

The two of them ate in silence, at least after the doctor’s initial appreciative noises. The human ate at an alarming pace, and Garak stood halfway through to bring the man a small bowl of cool taspar broth as well. Clearly, he was making up for lost time.

“Thank you, Mister…Garak, is it?” He shoveled the last of the _zoval_ into his mouth.

It was a long, frightening span of seconds before Garak realized the other man must have seen it in the computer terminal.

“Legate Garak? Gul? What title do they give you in your--?”

“Just Garak. Plain, simple—“

“…Garak.” He chewed through the velar sounds, dabbing at the corner of his mouth. “Well, you can call me Julian, if you like.”

“Use of a given name requires a level of intimacy among Cardassians. Courting, married, kin—that sort of thing.”

“Ahh. Not appropriate for jailer and prisoner then.”

“I prefer to think of myself as your _host_.” The other man’s demeanor was starting to concern him. “Doctor, forgive me if this observation offends, but you’re in a far better mood than when last we spoke.”

Their eyes met, and Garak was gratified to see a spark of anger remained. “A sonic shower and a good meal go a long way. But also…“

Garak raised his eyeridge and motioned for the doctor to continue.

“I’ve begun reading through the data on the Assami outbreak. I suppose I’ve decided to put my own predicament aside and concentrate on that.”

“Admirable.” _And convenient._

The doctor pulled the cup of broth closer and picked up his spoon. “And I also noticed, among my files, a copy of the order assigning me to your home.”

Garak didn’t look up from his plate, sliding a bit of steak through the blue sauce with too much care.

“Central Command wanted me detained at Kaltak, even after I agreed to render aid. You convinced them otherwise.”

“My superior convinced them. I wouldn’t trust those morons at Kaltak to keep track of their own _kojok_ , let alone a human augment,” he said coolly.

“Yes, but you didn’t have to keep me in your _home_. You might have recommended an Obsidian Order facility. You can’t tell me you people don’t keep any secure locations for someone like me to be hidden away.” His voice needled, clearly trying to get Garak to admit to something.

“If you want the sweetest _ikri_ , make it yourself, as they say.” He was sure to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “Besides, though you may find it hard to believe, I _do_ hope you’re able to help those people on the northern continent. If a soft bed and a warm meal help you do that, I am more than willing to supply them.”

They lapsed back into silence, the doctor taking small, noisy slurps of taspar broth, his gaze focused on something far away.

When loading files onto the guestroom terminal, Garak had included the order remanding the doctor to his care with some hesitation. It might make the doctor see him as less hostile. It might also make the doctor see him as _soft_. But the gamble appeared, for now, to have paid off. Instead of the belligerent, tight-lipped man he’d brought into his home that morning, the man across from him looked thoughtful and open. He knew he couldn’t push it too far, but for a single day, Garak had already made excellent progress.

“Before you retire for the evening, Doctor, perhaps you’ll consider making a list of any equipment or specimens you’ll need to do your work. I can have the Medical Liaison bring them along first thing in the morning. I believe he’s already assemb—“

“Bring them? You mean I’ll be working _here_?”

“The basement has been outfitted with all the basic equipment and safety mechanisms the Medical Bureau provides. It should prove more than adequate for your purposes. And as I said, the Bureau’s liaison will bring you anything you find you need in the course of your research.”

“Yes, but a huge part of this sort of research is in the collaboration, the conversation. There’s a give and take to—“

“You’ll have the Liaison at your disposal. He can update you on any ‘conversations’ you may miss by being here.”

The doctor frowned, clearly unhappy with this solution.

“Did you really expect us to let you into one of the most secure facilities on Cardassia, Doctor? You read the order: they hardly wanted to allow you out of prison. Allowing an augment access to biological technology and data—“

The doctor put up a hand to stop him. “Fine. Fine. There’s no use debating it. For now, during the initial stages, it shouldn’t be an issue as long as your liaison is--”

“You’ll find our liaison is one of the most knowledgeable doctors in the quadrant. Not to mention a very open and thorough researcher.”

The doctor tilted his head and sat back. Garak didn’t like how penetrating the other man’s eyes had suddenly become. “You’re friends.”

“We’re colleagues, and yes, we’ve known each other for some time.” _And make of that whatever you like._ “Now, Doctor, if you’ll follow me back to your room? I believe both of us will need to make an early start tomorrow.”

Garak waited for the definitive _click-click-click_ of the human’s door before heading to his office and a very full glass of kanar. It hadn’t been more than an hour when his comm buzzed: the doctor had sent an exceptionally detailed list of everything he needed. Garak forwarded it on to Parmak without further review.

_That’s enough of that for one day_ , he sighed, grabbing the Korit Mar from his desk and leaning back in his seat. A chapter, at least, to help quiet his mind. The last few days had afforded him precious little time for such diversions, and he was sorely in need.

But, as he struggled through each sentence, his mind refused to cooperate, bringing him back again and again to dinner.

The human gave the impression of being sincere in his rapprochement, but Garak couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been too easy—that the human must be toying with him, trying to get him to relax and open up just as he was trying to do.

Garak had to admire that, in a way. He’d seen plenty of Starfleet prisoners who’d stayed proud and strong, maintaining silence and honor and steadfast disdain for their captors. They had refused to bend, and, so, had broken with pitiful ease, marched off to labor camps or tortured to death.

The doctor, however, seemed flexible, especially in service to his medical duties. He would be willing to wait, and listen, and observe, so long as Garak didn’t interfere with the work. That was one thing he envied about doctors: no matter what they did or where they did it or who they did it to, they tended to share a firm conviction that it was Right. Parmak had the same annoying habit.

As if on cue, the viewscreen at his desk flashed.

MBC4577.KPARKMAK >> This is quite a list. Your human knows what he’s about.

Garak put aside his book to respond.

CCOO6332.EGARAK >> You read his file. I wouldn’t have made the recommendation otherwise. Anything on the list dangerous?

MBC4577.KPARMAK >> Dangerous?

CCOO6332.EGARAK >> Anything he could use to, say, incapacitate me and wipe out the entire population of Cardassia City?

MBC4577.KPARMAK >> We’re working with viruses, Elim. It’s all dangerous.

CCOO6332.EGARAK >> I’m counting on you to help minimize that danger, Parmak.

There was a pause. Garak stared at the blinking cursor.

MBC4577.KPARMAK >> I’m flattered that you’d trust me with your well-being, _ **Garak** _.

He could hear Parmak’s bitter voice in the letters on the screen. _It’s for the best, Elim. You know it is._

CCOO6332.EGARAK >> Don’t make me regret it, if you please. The human is…interesting. Be careful with him. Don’t let him talk you into anything that you’ll regret.

MBC4577.KPARMAK >> Afraid he’ll infect me with his revolutionary Federation notions? Afraid I’ll backslide?

CCOO6332.EGARAK >> I’m trying to minimize that danger. You can trust me with your well-being, too, you know.

MBC4577.KPARMAK >> Elim Garak, I will never trust you any further than I can throw you.

Garak smiled.      

CCOO6332.EGARAK >> There may be hope for you yet, Parmak.

CCOO6332.EGARAK >> See you at 09:30. Don’t be late.

The screen went dark, and Garak was left alone with his book once again.

When he finally did nod off, he dreamt of the doctor’s teeth sinking into his gray flesh. It was smothered in _leejat_ sauce.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we hear from Julian, who will meet Parmak properly and learn some interesting new things about his jailer/host. 
> 
> As always, I *greatly* appreciate all kudos and comments. Even if the comment is just a string of random letters that approximates the noise you are making while reading, I will *treasure* it. It helps me know that someone is still reading along (and is still interested in continuing to read) this thing that seems to occupy a large amount of my limited free time lately.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

 

For a beautiful split second just before he opened his eyes, Julian forgot. The smooth linen sheets were bunched at his hips, his pillow tucked beneath him, his knees curled almost to his chest. Directly beneath the vent, a trickle of air streamed down his neck. The gentle thrum of the station was the only thing absent.

But once he opened his eyes, the too-bright slide of sunlight through the window brought him back to himself. Outside the sky was a relentless yellow and the buildings, arching up towards the sun, were inescapably alien.

Even the sound as the computer woke him— _the time is 7:00 hours_ —was all wrong, its voice male, harsh.

For the tenth day, Julian Bashir awoke a prisoner.

To be fair, of all those days, this was the first on which his stomach hadn’t ached from hunger and his back from a mattress stuffed with lumps.

And just as he had every morning, he took a deep breath and reminded himself. _No pain lasts forever, Julian. Just today. Try to see this day to the end._

So he stood and stumbled his way into the sonic shower, determined to lose himself in a morning routine.

Even in the cooled room, his clothes clung with sweat. He cranked the vibration of the shower to its highest level until it felt as if each cell in his body was shedding dirt, shaking like a dog come in from the rain. He ran the depilator across his jaw and under his nose, glad to see the last stubbly vestiges disappear. He hadn’t considered clean clothing until he went to remove the towel from his waist and had no replacement. Even his outfit from the previous day was missing: collected, he supposed, while he was showering.

The door, of course, was firmly locked.

_Well, I guess I’ll be working starkers until Mister Garak decides I can have clothes._

Trying not to dwell on that thought, he sat at his computer terminal and reviewed the list of equipment he’d requested, typing in a few questions he wanted to ask this “liaison” when he showed up. If he would even be permitted to ask questions: questions didn’t exactly seem _de rigueur_ on Cardassia.

The _click-click-click_ of the door opening startled him, and he leapt from the desk, fumbling to readjust his towel.

_The housekeeper. Lovely._

She charged in, and, seeing him half-covered, clucked her tongue and averted her eyes theatrically.

“Thank you, m’am,” he tried, giving her a little smile. “I’m sorry about my state. I didn’t mean to—“

She was gone before he’d even finished the apology.

  _And a good morning to you, too_.

He sighed, examining the breakfast and the pressed trousers and the oddly-cut shirt she’d left behind. He was trying; he really _was_ trying. _Make it just a little easier, Cardassia. Please, send me at least_ one _person who doesn’t loathe me on sight. One person who might qualify as_ kind.

The word turned his mind to the previous evening—to the order that had sent him here, so carefully left in his terminal for him to find. He’d read it over three times the day before, trying to puzzle it out.

Was the inquisitor being “kind?”

As much as Julian longed to see a smiling face, Garak’s didn’t fool him for a second. The Cardassian had deliberately put the file there for him to read. He wanted Julian to believe he was on his side—that he was the one Julian had to thank for the piping hot breakfast and the cool sheets. Well, if he was, Julian knew there was a reason, and it _wasn’t_ kindness. All one had to do was look into the Cardassian’s steely eyes to know that kindness was but another cloak he could slip on and off at will.

 _Well, let him keep it on, then._ Julian had made up his mind not to challenge the inquisitor in a war of wills. For now, he would keep his head down and do his work. But there were ways available to him: all he needed was to wait and plan and, above all, be an exceptionally good pet human.

 _Including putting on my little costume_ , he thoughas he held up the thin, striped shirt that had been selected. While he would never have worn it of his own volition, he did have to admit that it was a great deal cooler than his own clothes. The trousers, loose in the leg but comfortably snug in the waist, fit as if they’d been painstakingly tailored.

He spent the next hour with his nose buried in a padd. The virus in question was terribly tricky. Until recently, all _chom’nu_ in the Cardassian population had come from two strains: one which was easily transmissible but whose symptoms were mild and short-lasting, and a second, which was less infectious but caused debilitating pain and more dangerous respiratory side-effects. The death rate from the first strain had held steady. The second strain had killed far fewer, but, of those infected, three-quarters died.

Through some sort of antigenic shift, the two existing strains had combined into a virus with all the worst components of its forebears. The new strain was exceptionally virulent; if exposed, one was almost certain to become infected. Even worse, it seemed to deadliest to the young and healthy, whose immune systems kicked into overdrive in an attempt to fight it off. In at least a third of all cases, patients experienced cytokine storm and never recovered.

On the northern continent, the sickness had become known as _heriot’za,_ which the padd informed with dry objectivity, meant The Gasp.

The Medical Bureau had split into two teams: the first team was investigating ways to alter the antivirals to make them more effective. They had reported no progress whatsoever.

The second team—the more robust of the two—was attempting to develop a viable inoculation for use across Cardassia Prime. An epidemiology team had already studied the likely outcome should the disease break its current quarantine and infect all continents. Estimated casualties were projected as high as 10% of the population.

 He read that several times, reminding himself of the stakes.

“Garak to Doctor Bashir.”

The voice zapped straight at his gut. Disembodied, it gave the distinct impression that Garak had been watching him from some hidden vantage. _As he probably has_ , _of course._ “Bashir here.”

“Doctor, the liaison from the Medical Bureau has arrived. We’re waiting for you down in the drawing room: you may join us when you’re ready.” The door _click-click-clicked_ open. “Oh, and, please do be sure you’re _properly_ _attired_.”

“What?”

“You’ve quite scandalized my housekeeper, and I’d hate for you to ruin your first impression with the Inquirator as well.”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t—“

The Cardassian was chuckling. _Damn him_.

He closed his eyes, taking a moment to focus on his breathing and to lower his heartrate. _Just today. Try to see this day to the end._

He checked the fit of the shirt and trousers all the same, before he headed downstairs.

 

*******************

He’d only been in the room with Kelas Parmak for five minutes before he knew that _this_ was the Cardassian he’d been hoping for.

Parmak was the tallest Cardassian Julian had ever met, with at least three inches on him. Tall and extremely lean. Unlike Garak, Parmak’s eyes were dark, and, as they worked their way down the data padd, Julian sensed a warmth there that the other Cardassian lacked.

The moment Garak had left, Parmak dispensed with the formality and smiled—truly _smiled--_ diving right into the list Julian had provided. 

Despite himself, Julian found the smile infectious.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t sure what a ‘base pair replication accelerant’ is. We certainly have accelerants, but not at the base pair level.”

Parmak’s immediate shift to the medical was clearly designed to put Julian more at ease. A kind plan, he felt, and one that worked exceptionally well. Julian considered himself as expert a doctor on Cardassian medicine as Starfleet could boast, what with his posting on DS9. Most of the medical databases had been erased, of course, but he’d had occasion to patch up his fair share of Cardassians passing through and had always made it a point to learn what he could at medical conferences and the like.

But he learned more in the first two hours with Parmak than he had in the preceding three years aboard the station. Parmak had a keen mind as well as that rare ability to communicate ideas clearly and efficiently. An invaluable combination, in his experience. Garak had been right: he was impressed.

“I think I might get Loral to bring down a pot of tea before we go over the microcellular array,” he said with half a yawn. His voice, though obviously strained, was deep and pleasant. “I haven’t taught like this since my days at the clinic in Lakarian. I’d forgotten how it wears on your throat.”  

Julian didn’t look up from the culture resequencer, repeating the activation sequences to himself again. _Usual replication speed and condition:_ _Amber. Amber. Turquoise. And then the one with that squiggly-looking ‘4’ on it._

“Doctor Bashir?”

He repeated it to himself twice more before he allowed his mind to move on. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. No tea, thank you, Doctor.”

“Are you sure? Red leaf? Tolian black? I find it helps if one has something warm to hold and sip and busy one’s hands with during these…awkward situations.”

“The last cup of tea a Cardassian offered me had some rather nasty side effects. I’m afraid it may have put me off tea for good.” He watched the other man’s face carefully. _Now let’s see if you really are different than my dear friend Mister Garak._

Understanding flickered across his features, but he soon schooled them back to a subdued smile. “I see.” Tight, disapproving, though of whom, he couldn’t say. “Well, then, you’ll have to busy your hands with the microcellular array. We’ve outfitted it with several—“

 _No, you’re not quite like him, are you?_ He allowed himself to speculate for only a moment before he stepped back into the flow of their lessons once again.

*****************

By the end of their first workday, Julian’s mind was more exhausted than it had been since his first year of medical school. Procedures and techniques he could do in his sleep at any Federation facility had to be learned again from the beginning. Things were starting to jumble, even in his enhanced mind.

It wasn’t until he made his third mistake in operating the centrifuge that Parmak let out a relieved sigh. “So your memory _does_ have a limit. I was beginning to think you were going to learn five years of medical training all in one afternoon.”

He smiled and allowed himself to collapse backwards against the wall. His stomach growled fiercely.

“Ahh, quite right. It’s time we took ourselves upstairs for a snack and a _civit_ , don’t you think?”

Unable to argue with his own hunger and exhaustion, he followed the other man through the decontamination fields and back up into the house proper. While Parmak went off to take care of their food and drink, he crumpled into what was certainly the most comfortable chair of his life, all plump cushion and miraculously cool upholstery.

Thought he tried to force himself to think of t he medicine, his brain creaked with overwork, and he could do little more than sit and take in his surroundings. They were in the main sitting room, a wide window facing out to the street, though its shutters were drawn. The decoration was minimal but tasteful all the same. While the tabletops were free of clutter or ornament, a curio cabinet housed a number of novelties from around the quadrant. He recognized a Bajoran prayer wheel, a Vulcan serenity vase, and something that was certainly Klingon, though he had no idea what purpose such a vicious-looking object might serve—he probably didn’t want to know.

The walls were dominated by a single painting that stretched large and somber across from him. All in earth tones, a Cardassian man stood in profile, staring off the edge of a cliff down onto a home below. The sky swirled sepia at his back, and the sun peeked between dunes in the distance: rising or setting, it was impossible to tell. The man’s face was masked by shadow, but somehow every line of his body spoke of longing. In his hand he held a single flower, flaming red.

“A famous depiction of a scene from _The Never-ending Sacrifice_.” Parmak set a pair of small golden glasses on the table between them. “It’s a Cardassian novel: one of the most renowned and a personal favorite of Garak’s.”

He looked again at the painted figure’s face. “Not a cheerful work I take it.”

“That, like most things, depends entirely on one’s perspective,” he said, settling  into the seat beside Julian. “Just prior to this scene, Altak Anat here has discovered that his wife, Marika, is complicit in a planned coup against the current leader of the State, Legate Ramoran. She’s bitter, you see, because Ramoran has ordered three of her sons to their deaths in a war with a rebellious Union world. Altak turns his wife in to the authorities, and she is sentenced to death. He has done his duty to the State and Legate Ramoran, who is, of course, one of the wisest leaders the Union has ever seen, continues to prosper. But on the morning of Marika’s birthday—just this one morning—he sneaks away to the hills overlooking the home they shared, and he mourns her. He remembers her and their sons, and he weeps. The flower he’s holding is the _perek_ : it’s used in the ceremonies of the dead.”

 _What a delightful choice of subject matter for one’s parlor_. “Isn’t that a tad…subversive?”

“Subversive? How so?”

“Well, isn’t secretly mourning the death of a traitor its own kind of treachery? For Cardassians, I mean?”

The other man watched him with appraising sadness. His mother had given him the same look in his youth, often when he’d said something unintentionally hurtful. “You must think us monsters, Doctor.”

“I just meant—“

“I don’t blame you, of course, given the circumstances…Yes, doing one’s duty to the State is the foremost responsibility and privilege of every Cardassian. But it doesn’t mean we don’t _feel_ other duties with equal fervor. This scene shows the strength of Altak’s sacrifice: he does his duty to the Union _despite_ his intense and consuming love. He allows himself to love and honor Marika fully, yet he _doesn’t_ allow such selfish emotions to sway him from his obligation to the greater good. It is the model of Cardassian virtue.”

 He nodded, beginning to understand. “ _’As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him_ ,’” he recited as he reexamined the figure of Altak, trying to see something in his face. What did it say for the inquisitor to have this scene blazoned across his wall? _What is it that you’ve lost to the State, Mister Garak?_

Parmak poured clear liquid into the small glass beside him. “Caesar?”

“Oh, it’s from a famous literary work on Earth. Brutus, the man who spoke those words, conspired and killed his best friend in order to keep him from becoming a tyrant.” What would the Cardassian take on _Julius Caesar_ be, he wondered. Would it be the tragic story of Brutus? Or would Caesar be the rightful State betrayed? Would such concepts translate?

Parmak made an interested noise, but asked no further questions before throwing back the liquid in his glass in a single gulp. The air thickened with the scent of fire—something akin to anise and whiskey and smoke. “Now, Doctor. We’ve discussed the finest in Cardassian literature. Let us drink the finest in Cardassian spirits-- _civit_.” He filled both glasses this time and offered one to Julian.

“It’s—pungent.”

“And it tastes stronger than it smells. A drink that doesn’t burn a bit isn’t doing its work.” He lifted his glass. “To Cardassia.”

Julian froze. He couldn’t, in all honesty, raise his glass to that. But it wasn’t his intent to insult Parmak either. _This is why they pass me up for diplomatic missions…_

To his relief, Parmak merely laughed. “Of course, how thoughtless. How about ‘to the recovery of the northern continent and the eradication of heriot’za’?”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Their glasses clinked genially, and the odor of burnt licorice filled the air.

****************

 

Dinner tonight was a sort of summer stew. The broth tasted too much of fish, and the meat was flavorless. The vegetables, however, were crisp and fresh, including something beet-like along with a stalk vegetable that resembled mealy celery. Dotted through the stew were pods filled with a buttery liquid: _illarak,_ Garak called them. They were _divine_. Apparently they were also a traditional component of morning meals, and Garak promised to send some up, browned in sugar, with tomorrow’s breakfast.

Cardassian cuisine was growing on him. He wondered if he’d be able to find these recipes in the replicators once he made it back to the station.

_There you go, Julian. Hope springs eternal and all that._

“How was your work with Doctor Parmak today?”

An _illarak_ crunched between his teeth with a satisfying pop.  “Arduous. I’ve a great deal to learn about Cardassian medicine. But you were right about Parmak. He’s an excellent teacher.”

Garak nodded as if Julian had just complimented his shirt.

 _Too cool, Mister Garak. You’re playing it_ too _even-keeled._

Two glasses of _civit_ down, Parmak had asked Julian if his accommodations had been satisfactory thus far. Julian, two glasses of _civit_ down, had made some snarky comment about it being the nicest prison he’d ever stayed in. _I’ve never had a sadist cook me such fine meals before threatening to implode the entire neighborhood if I try to escape._

Parmak had shaken his head and smiled indulgently. _Elim’s no sadist, Doctor. Try not to judge him by—_

Julian hadn’t heard anything after. All he’d heard was Garak’s voice repeating in his head: _Use of a given name requires a level of intimacy among Cardassians. Courting, married, kin—_

Parmak and Garak weren’t kin. And they weren’t married.

 _Really, Parmak, you could do so much better…_ He looked at the man across from him, trying to see what might appeal.

 _He’s not bad-looking, of course_. Pleasantly sturdy, and a good height for someone tall. His mind was obviously sharp, and his eyes had moments of mesmerizing clarity, though a clear view of what lay behind those eyes wasn’t necessarily a plus…

“Is something wrong, Doctor? You look as if you’re either going to paint my portrait or peel the scales from my face.”

Julian turned his spoon through his bowl, struck suddenly with a desire to shatter the civility that stretched between them. “How long have you and Parmak been involved?”

He wasn’t sure what sort of reaction he’d expected. Surprise, yes. Shock, maybe. Anger—certainly. He’d expected questions or sullen silence or denial.

But the inquisitor barely skipped a beat. “We have never officially courted, if that’s what you mean. But we were…good friends…for a time.” He took a sip of stew.

For a few agonizing seconds there was nothing but the sound of popping _illarak_.

_For Pete’s sake, Julian…of course…_

“You listened in on our conversation,” he realized with a groan.

Garak gave him a look that said the observation was too obvious to warrant a response.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed learning all about microcellular array schematics, then,” he snapped. God, how could he have been so stupid? To think he had _any_ semblance of privacy on this godforsaken planet…

“Oh, I may have skimmed through a few hours there...I’m impressed you picked up on the slip, actually. I’m not sure even Parmak realized what he’d said.”

Julian gave a sarcastic half-bow and popped another _illarak_ between his teeth. What had they discussed? Medicine, sure, and literature, and his disdain for being held prisoner. They had briefly discussed hound racing, and racquetball, and Federation medical training. Nothing, hopefully, that might be detrimental to Parmak…

“I found your discussion of _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ particularly interesting, I must say. Tell me, Doctor. Having heard the Cardassian view, what do _you_ think of Altak’s sacrifice?”

Julian hoped that the look he gave the other man was as angry as he felt. “Are there listening devices in _my_ room?”

Garak said nothing.

“In _all_ the rooms?”

“I can say with complete honesty that not _every_ room in my house has a listening device.”

“I can’t say that the word ‘honesty’ has much meaning coming from your mouth.”

That damned smile again. One day he was going to find a way to wipe that thing off his face, even for just a moment.

“Allow me to be more specific, Doctor. There are no listening devices in my room, my office, or my library. If you’re looking for a safe haven, perhaps you would care to join me in the library for a glass of kanar? Try not to take offense, but you look like you could use a few hours to relax. You’re almost as ragged as when first we met.”

The sudden slam of light and fear flashed through his memory.

 _Kanar in the library._ What did Parmak see in this lunatic?

“I was serious in my inquiry. I’m interested in how you interpret Altak’s sacrifice. I have a hypothesis, based on my observations of human behavior, but I wouldn’t want to influence your response.”

“And I would love to have that conversation with you, Mister Garak.”

“Excellent. I’ve oft—“

“But I’m going to have to insist that you deactivate the listening devices in my room first.” He pushed his bowl away, feeling himself steel against the objection. _Go ahead, laugh, roll your eyes, even give me that smile. I’m not budging on this one._ “I can’t work comfortably without some semblance of privacy in my own room.”

The silence was unexpectedly short. “Fair enough.”

He froze, combing over Garak’s face in search of the catch. He’d been prepared for a fight—such easy agreement had all the contours of a trap. “Just—like that?”

“It’s not as if you’ll be having many conversations alone in your room. And I hardly need another seven hours of you snoring.”

Julian furrowed his brow and tried to spot the trick. “Are there video devices? Holorecorders?”

“Doctor, you’re really being quite paranoid.”

“That’s not an answer, Mr. Garak.”

“It’s just Garak.”

“Still not an answer.”

The Cardassian put down his glass, annoyed. “The only devices in _your_ room are audio recorders and heat imaging sensors at the window and door. And, of course, data recorders at all terminals and communications panels. I don’t _need_ to take a picture with that sort of information.”

 _Is that a lie?_ Julian knew the common physiological signs of lying in most humanoids. Pupilary contraction, increased or decreased eye contact, swallowing, touching the face. Garak did none of those things. But then, he had to be better than that, right? The Obsidian Order would have drilled such easy tells out of him by now…

_How do you read a professional liar?_

After a moment, the only answer he could come up with was _you don’t._ He could play the is-it-or-isn’t-it game all night with this man and still come no closer to the truth. For now, he’d have to be pleased with this small concession. “Well, then, yes—let’s deactivate the audio devices. And after that I’ll be more than happy to tell you what an idiot Altak is.”

Something sparked in Garak’s eyes, but, to Julian’s surprise, it wasn’t anger. It was fascination. Pique.

Was _this_ the inquisitor’s weakness?

Julian allowed himself a smile, and, for the first time, the smile Garak returned seemed to be one of genuine pleasure.

 

************************

“I _understand_ that. And, of course, loyalty to one’s government is important, but—“

“No, Doctor, you see, that’s how I know that you _don’t_ understand. Loyalty isn’t _important._ It is _essential._ ” He tapped the table between them with a finger to emphasize the point.

“What about loyalty to Marika? To his family? Isn’t family quite important to Cardassians?”

“What is the State but family, Doctor? The State is the mother feeding her children. The State is the father, protecting his brood.”

Julian’s skin was flushed with the heat of kanar and debate. He’d never cared much for the sticky sweet of kanar, but he found that, as they leaned into their arguments, it was growing on him, propping him up for the next round.

“Well, forgive me if I think there’s a weight to the love of one’s partner. It would take something extraordinary for me to betray the trust—“

“ _She_ betrayed the trust, Doctor! S _he_ participated in the plot, knowing the risk—“ He smoothed at his hair, something Julian had noticed he did when frustrated. “No, no—it’s no use. You’re too mired in sentimentality and Federation dogma to see anything beyond—“

“Now, that’s not fair. I didn’t say that I couldn’t understand _ever_ making the decision Altak did.”

Garak’s eyes widened. “Oh really? Well, then, by all means…”

“I can understand loving someone but knowing that they’ve done wrong—so wrong, even, that they need to be tried and punished.” He took a sip of kanar, trying to work out just the right way to say it. _He considers every word like a Ferengi balancing his ledger_. Refreshing, really. Most people handled words so cavalierly: this debate demanded exactitude. “I suppose the real question for me would be…did she _truly_ do something wrong?”

Garak let the confusion hang on his face without a word.

“I mean, by being complicit in a plot to remove Legate Ramoran, was she, _in fact_ , wrong?” He tipped his glass in Garak’s direction to punctuate the question. “I mean, Parmak mentioned that the Legate had sent her three sons off to die in war. Was Ramoran involving the Union in unnecessary wars? Were her three sons representative of a pattern of Ramoran’s discount for Cardassian lives? Did Ramoran _deserve_ to be—“

“I’ll—stop you right there, Doctor. “ He held up a hand and shook his head as if Julian were an errant school child. “If you had read the book, you would know that Legate Ramoran was the model of Cardassian leadership: thoughtful but aggressive in his defense of the Union. But _even so_ , do you really think rebellion can be justified by an _individual’s_ opinion of what is right and best?”

“Ramoran’s opinion seems to be worth a lot. Why is his worth more than Marika’s?”

“Ramoran was head of the Military Council. And as such, yes, his opinion was worth more. If every individual gets to decide whether a leader has the right to rule, how can a society have anything other than rampant chaos and—“

“The Federation manages to give all individuals a voice.”

Garak’s laughter echoed off the paper and lacquer walls. “Oh, dear Doctor, you are young, but I can’t believe you are _that_ naïve.”

“Sure, not every individual in the Federation gets his way, but if a group of individuals has concerns about decisions being made—“

“Then they get to overthrow the Federation Council?” Garak pressed.

“Of course not. There’s no need for overthrow when there are non-violent, collaborative means of—“

“Oh, is that what they’re doing in the Demilitarized Zone? ‘Collaborating?’”

Julian growled in frustration.

One summer at the Academy, he had taken to playing _kal-toh_. His Vulcan roommate had taught him the rules, but Julian had quickly outmatched him. He’d considered joining the Academy team, but there was too much danger of revealing himself. No, he wanted to be able to play—really _play_ —without holding anything back.

He’d moved on to playing the computer, but eventually, even that became too easy to predict, to outmaneuver. After a month of lackluster competition, he’d managed to get his hands on an algorithmic setting shaped by Tamak himself, meant to mimic the styles of Vulcan’s greatest players over the last three hundred years. It played, the advertisement claimed, like the Masters.

And it had beaten him. Badly. He was unaccustomed to losing, especially when he wasn’t holding back. He wasn’t feigning or calculating—he was just _losing_ , totally and completely.

He’d beaten that setting only once, but it had been an electric joy. The odd thing was he’d enjoyed the losing _even more_. The challenge, the push, the total and open use of all of himself was more exhilarating than a thousand wins on an easier setting.

And that’s just how he felt, sitting here, staring into the inquisitor’s eyes, wondering whether he would ever be able to win on this setting.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never felt the kind of love that might make you forget the State?” It was a bold move: an instinctual one. _One that’s going to get you zapped, if you’re not careful._

Garak’s face fell, the manic energy that had been building there throughout their discussion dissipating with worrying suddenness. “Really, Doctor. You were doing so well. Such maudlin arguments are beneath you.”

“Perhaps you have, Mister Garak. Perhaps you’ve felt that and made the same choice as Altak. And now you’re left climbing to the top of the mountain to mourn all on your own.”

The look on the Cardassian’s face was a warning, thrown up with cold precision.

_Step back, Julian. You’ve gone too far._

“Either that, or you don’t understand love at all. I guess neither would surprise me.”

Garak sat back with a sigh. “You’re too young to understand anything, Doctor Bashir. Including love. And _certainly_ not Altak.”

 _You mean I can’t understand_ you. But he was wrong about that. The picture Julian had been sketching of the inquisitor was slowly filling in, and this was only further confirmation. “Maybe I should read the book then. An aide to understanding.”

He was relieved to see a little of the spark return to the other man’s eyes. “Perhaps. After all, Altak’s sacrifice is pale thing when taken out of its context. His sacrifice continues a line that has stretched back three generations before and allows it to continue, through his daughter, for a further three.” He tapped his glass for a moment, considering. “I don’t have a Standard translation of the book, but I could run it through the translation matrix and send it to your terminal in the morning. If you’re sincere in your commitment to understanding, that is.”

“Well, I _am_ ‘too young to understand anything,’ but I’ll give it the old college try, I suppose.”

The look the Cardassian gave him was baldly appraising. Not approval, exactly, but reluctant interest. “And what would you recommend, then, Doctor?”

“Recommend?”

“Yes, if I asked you to recommend a piece of Earth literature, what would it be?”

Julian set down his glass with a long breath. God, he hated that question. How many times had a date asked him his favorite book only to be subjected to an hour-long treatise on the relative merits of modernist Earth literature relative to that of the Vulcan post-industrialists…

 _Think about the man, Julian_. What could Garak possibly appreciate in Earth literature?

“And _please_ don’t recommend Shakespeare. I think I can firmly say it’s not for me.”

“What—why? What have you read?”

Garak shrugged. “One of the Starfleet prisoners we held during the Border Wars had a copy of the author’s collected works and swore up and down that _Hamlet_ was the greatest of all Earth literature. He leant me the book to prove it.”

“I take it you disagree.”

“Oh the language was lovely in parts, I’ll grant, but the plot was laughably untidy and the titular character _insufferable_. Of course his uncle took over the State to save it from years of that ridiculous child droning them into ruin.”

Despite himself, Julian smiled. Yes, this would be an interesting challenge.

“I read _Julius Caesar_ as well, which I believe you mentioned to Parmak. That you would even mention it in the same sentence as _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ makes me regret—“

“Okay. Okay.” He said, shaking his head and considering the tiny, stubborn urge that had wormed its way to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps it was remembering the thrill of losing at _kal-toh_ , but he felt suddenly and doggedly determined to make this man enjoy Shakespeare. _No point in playing on the easy setting, eh?_

So what would it be then? _Romeo and Juliet_ was almost certainly doomed to failure; he couldn’t imagine _Macbeth_ would even translate, with its vacillating lead. A Roman play, perhaps, though _Antony and Cleopatra_ was—

And then he had it.

“You didn’t like _Hamlet_ or _Julius Caesar,_ but I believe there might be a Shakespeare for you yet, Mr. Garak.”

Garak groaned.

“ _The Tragedy of Coriolanus…_ it’s not one of the more beloved, but it’s had its proponents over the centuries. A famous Earth poet who hated _Hamlet_ as well argued that it was Shakespeare’s best. And it does strike me as a bit Cardassian now that I think on it.”

“I’m frightened to guess what you mean by that.”

Yes, he was warming to this idea. “It reflects certain values that are no longer the norm on Earth but that might resonate here at the heart of the Union. Sacrifice for the State, patriotism, militarism, absolute rule of the upper classes. Its main character is—“

“You shouldn’t tell me what happens. Torture is far sweeter when one must guess at the horrors to come.”

Julian huffed. _You’re the expert._ “Look, if you’re not going to go into it with an open mind, I don’t see why we should bother with this exercise at all. Maybe I _am_ young and naïve, but you should consider that you’re behaving like an obstinate, narrow-minded _old_ _man_.”

 _Oh hell_. The words tumbled from his mouth, which had clearly become over-lubricated with kanar. For a moment, once again, he’d forgotten his time and place and had begun speaking as if he were sitting at Quark’s, arguing with Odo over some trivial behavior of humanoids. _Oh well. The die is cast_. All he could do was try to meet the other man’s eyes as if he wasn’t terrified of being reduced to a writhing pile of pain at any second.

But Garak, while taken aback, merely turned away, busying himself by pouring another glass of kanar and making a show of looking through the shelves.

 _Stupid, Julian._ His jailer had proven more indulgent than he might have guessed, but it wouldn’t do to push him.

Or would it?

He couldn’t be sure how, exactly, but, some intuitive, animal part of his brain whispered that the inquisitor was _enjoying_ this. That Julian pushing back was amusing the Cardassian far more than a polite and demurring prisoner.

 _He probably likes it when they scream as he twists the screws, too._ Not necessarily a good thing. But it could be useful.

It had put the other man a little more at ease, and, to be honest, Julian felt more himself than he had in weeks. Any hope of getting off this dreadful planet lay in getting this man to _trust_ him. Or at least, to stop _distrusting_ him long enough for Julian to make his move.

And this—whatever this strange interspecies book club was—might just be the answer.

_The play’s the thing, Julian…_

Face resolute, Garak turned from the shelves and held up a dog-eared copy that proclaimed itself _The Collected Works of William Shakespeare_ in a tacky filigreed font. “Perhaps you’re right, Doctor. I’ll do my best to approach Shakespeare as if we’re meeting for the first time. Provided you attempt to look on Altak with fresh and unsullied eyes as well.”

Julian wondered absently what had happened to the man who’d loaned Garak that book. Somehow he didn’t think the man had been in any fit state to ask for its return.

He swallowed. _It’s still a dangerous game._ He couldn’t forget that.

“I look forward to it.”

The inquisitor smiled his wolfish smile and poured him another glass of kanar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I am not:  
> 1\. A doctor or a person with any medical knowledge whatsoever  
> 2\. A speaker of British English.  
> So if and when I slaughter terminology and slang, please forgive me. The extent of my knowledge on these fronts has come from reading wikipedia pages on influenza and watching a ton of Monty Python.
> 
> Things I am:  
> A Shakespeare nerd. I know _Coriolanus_ isn't too well-known, so knowledge of the play isn't necessary, and it doesn't feature heavily. I was reading the play when I had the idea for this fic, and the two became bound up together. It is a political play which features a flawed man (with a massively manipulative parent) who is devoted to the State but ends up in exile. Many shades of Garak. Here is a [ youtube clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHEmHb-HGA8) in which Josie Rourke describes the themes of the play beautifully. Also, [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coriolanus) has a decent and succinct description of the plot, if you're interested. But I'm not giving anyone homework, I swear.
> 
> And yes, I have plotted out the entirety of _The Never-ending Sacrifice,_ and I'm going to force Julian to read it cover to cover, like it or not. 
> 
> Next chapter, back to Garak. I have to say this may be the first chapter that takes two weeks between updates as my blasted "real life" is insisting on my full attention for the majority of this weekend and next. But I will certainly update with Chapter 5 no later than 10/28.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudosed. I am clinging to all those comments for dear life as I slog through rewrites of the sludgy middle chapters. Knowing what other people are thinking and feeling is a gift. You are all a gift! To those who continue to feel generous, keep 'em coming! :D


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

He’d been neglecting the flowers. And it showed.

The stale exhale of dawn breeze smelled of summer—summer, with its attendant duststorms and scaleburn and red-eyed haze. In a few weeks, gardening would become far less pleasant, and, while he’d assiduously prepared the vegetable gardens out back to provide fresh _punatur_ and _masok_ well into the fall, the flower gardens in the front had suffered. Between yellow stalks of _kis’sa_ , brown shoots peeked their menacing heads, unwelcome invaders. Garak took to each slowly, worming his fingers beneath, careful to extract each leeching tendril from the soil.

In tandem, his mind moved through the day ahead, rooting out each task that lay before him. One of the joys of the garden, Tolan had taught him. The time to think, to reflect, to till the soil of the self.

There’d be Merek and the operation with The Aspect. Merek had already proven that the organization had a long reach, operating even into the Demilitarized Zone. He’d linked it to the Censor of the Board of Commerce as well but was now insisting there must be deeper ties. He wanted an extension. The morning’s debrief with Lok would be tense: Lok was displeased with what he called the “meandering pace” of the mission, and Merek and Lok didn’t get along on their best day. Garak would spend the better part of the morning mediating, trying to help both men tread a path down the middle.

_I stayed out of politics to avoid exactly this sort of thing and look at me now._ It was enough to make him long for the simplicity of an operative’s life, when all he’d had to do was put his ear to the ground and let others quibble over these details.

After that was sorted, there’d be updates on the Ghemor operation. The idea had come from one of Lok’s men, and Garak still had doubts. It was the sort of thing that sounded clever and artful in the planning stages but that had a way of going sideways in execution. Garak didn’t know much more—he’d tried to stay well clear of it. The only thing he knew was that the woman involved was from Terok Nor, just like dear Doctor Bashir.

He dusted a bit of dirt from his knee. _Imagine, two of them here at the same time._ Could Cardassia not handle its own problems now? _Must we be reduced to kidnapping Federation fools every time something needs doing?_

At least he didn’t have to worry about that. That was Lok’s mess: one meddling Federation type was more than enough for him, thank you. _I hope that woman is plaguing Lok the way this doctor plagues me_.

From the very first day, the doctor had begun each morning by giving him a letter: a message to Starfleet care of one Commander Benjamin Sisko of Deep Space Nine. Garak had, of course, informed him that no communications would leave Cardassia. The human had spouted something about rights under the Seldonis conventions, and Garak had smiled and tucked it away.

That hadn’t stopped the doctor from delivering a new one each morning.

After two or three, Garak had given in to temptation and read them. The first was quite formal, apprising Starfleet that he was being held under false pretenses in order to help with a health crisis. Garak was gratified to see that he explicitly described the conditions of his detainment as “mostly humane.” There was some prevaricating on the accusation of his being an augment: here the doctor appeared contrite on the one hand, and, on the other, eager to defend himself.

The second was less formal, providing information on his efforts to aid with the northern continent. The third update avoided the issue of his detainment altogether, instead outlining several plans for vaccine testing and development and requesting a diplomatic medical team be considered, if Cardassia would accept the offer of one.

After four or five letters, the doctor must have guessed Garak might be reading them. The fifth began “If the sadistic lizard holding me hostage ever deigns to deliver this missive—“ Each letter since had felt as much like a letter to Garak— _through_ Garak—as anything else, and he found that he rather enjoyed tucking them away to read over lunch or during a particularly slow briefing. It provided an excellent synopsis of what progress the doctors were making.

This morning the letter had been waiting on the table when he came downstairs. In it Bashir referred to the discomforts he had endured, including “forced readings of exceptionally grim Cardassian literature” as well as “coffee consistently made far too weak.” _Impertinent boy._

Garak had made progress earning his trust, at least. Telling him about the listening devices had been a start. He’d allowed the doctor to make a search of the room: the man hadn’t done too badly either. He’d found five devices, and, to alleviate suspicion, Garak had revealed three more. Which left three remaining, all in locations the doctor was unlikely to discover.

After that, the human had relaxed some. Kanar eased that along. They drank—they debated. Since that moment the doctor had unwound some, at least while in his company: now, many evenings, they simply matched wits like colleagues over _gelat_.

_Oh, Elim, you old fool. You can’t lie to yourself_. The human wasn’t the only one. For a moment—for a very _brief_ moment—Garak had to admit, he’d lowered his guard as well. Just to see the man better, that was all. He kept the CPP activator in his pocket; he wasn’t _such_ a fool.

It was hard not to lower the sight of the rifle occasionally to catch a glimpse of the doctor. He was bright, in every sense of the word, Garak wouldn’t deny that. When they argued, the strange flat of his skin blossomed, the color of _perek_ at dusk. His eyes transformed, livelier and more acute. And there was the heat—when worked up the human’s body radiated it. Like sitting beside the fire on a chill winter night.

But, sun gods, was he green. All ideals and passion without a speck of realism or temperance. _Youth and inexperience are the wheel and rut_ , old Instructor Pralad used to say. _The one guides the other without either paying any notice_. The doctor was living further in that rut than anyone Garak had ever met.

In his experience, the traffic of life had a way of grinding you down if you stayed in that rut too long.

Snuffling interrupted his thoughts, warm fur tickling against his arm. Vibrating. Purring.

“ _Bakek kor_! _”_ A swift swat at the animal’s hindquarters, and it darted away with a tiny _kurup_. That damned _lemmik_ had eaten almost an entire row of _punatur_ from the back yesterday: now it was sniffing around, planning to piss all over the _kis’sa,_ no doubt. 

 “I told you not to feed it.” The voice behind him shivered with laughter. “Now he’ll never leave you be.”

Parmak’s shadow barely inched its way past his knee in the early morning light. “I was _trying_ to give him something to eat other than my root vegetables.”

“All you did was give him a taste for domesticity. Might as well put a collar on him and let him sleep at the foot of your bed.”

Subtly, as gently at the breeze, he felt Parmak’s fingers graze his hair.

_Leave it, Kelas._ He pulled away.

Parmak cleared his throat. “Good you’re finally taking care of this. The _kis’sa_ looked atrocious.”

“I _have_ been rather busy.”

“Ahh, yes, with the other domestic pest. How is the new pet doing?”

Parmak knew him too damned well. It was one of a hundred reasons this had to end. “He’s awake. I think he’s already downstairs. Early start.” He pulled up a weed with force. The black soil made a tiny sucking noise as it gave up its prize. “Feel free to go in and see him whenever you like and leave me in peace.”

Garak recognized the quick sniff, breath held. It always preceded an observation he wouldn’t like. “You’ve given him freedom of the house.”

“Trying to keep track of unlocking his door was becoming a nuisance. He won’t try to leave anytime soon. And if he does…well, I’m prepared.”

The quiet of those few seconds was full. Parmak knew. Garak knew that he did.

“I’ll give you the same advice you gave me: careful with him.”

Garak scoffed, though to his ears it sounded a tad brittle. “Careful? I could read my morning briefing and snap his neck at the same time. Without losing my place on the page.”

“I don’t mean pugilism, Garak, and you know it. The boy is…he fits your pattern.”

“Pattern?” Another weed. _Swuuurp_.

“Tall, bright, mouthy, and—“

“A _doctor_? Really, Parmak, that is some _spectacular_ narcissism, even for you.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.” Garak didn’t have to look up to know he was giving a sarcastic salute. “If you’ll excuse me.”  

As soon as Parmak’s shadow was gone, the snuffling inched closer again, the _lemmik_ ’s wide yellow eyes glowing in his direction.

_So many pathetic creatures: why do they keep finding their way to my doorstep?_

Absently, as he sat back to survey his work, he found himself reaching over to pat the creature. It let out a disgusting _prrrrrrek_.

He didn’t stop.

 

************************************

“Given up on _Coriolanus_ already?”

The doctor pointed, accusatory, to the Mar novel Garak had brought to the table along with his usual padd. The human leaned forward, narrow shoulders squared over his salad, fork poised mid-air. Garak had observed him long enough to know what it meant. The better Parmak’s report on their progress, the livelier the human was in later conversation. The more productive the day, the more enjoyable the evening. The good doctor was up for a fight. Must have been a good day in the lab.

“Actually, I’ve finished it,” Garak said primly, taking a moment to savor the anticipation that sparked in the doctor’s eyes _._ “I take it you haven’t finished _The Never-ending Sacrifice_?”

“Well it is _quite_ a bit longer.”

“If only you read as fast as you eat.”

This earned him a lovely smirk. “Well…? Nothing to say then?”

Garak sighed. When he’d agreed to suffer through yet _another_ Shakespeare play, he’d steeled himself for a night or two of tedium but found consolation in the fact that he could return to Mar soon and that the literary detour would have gained him, at least, something to fill the sprawling silences of dinner.

But the reality was far worse. He found that, ancestors forgive him, he actually rather _enjoyed_ it. Parts of it had almost…moved him.

It wasn’t serious literature, of course, but it reminded him of the morality tales Mila had read him as a boy—entertaining stories meant to shape the development of proper Cardassian character. He’d briefly entertained the notion of translating the story into Cardasi but decided it was unlikely to pass military censors given its implication that soldiers could, in fact, make terrible political leaders.

Enjoyment, however, had quickly given way to concern. Bashir had gotten it right: he’d sat across from Garak for only a few hours and plucked the sandflea from the dune. For all that Garak mocked the boy’s naïveté, he was, at least, perceptive. More perceptive than Garak had credited.

He didn’t like it.

Of course, he wouldn’t admit any of that to Bashir. What fun was there in pleasant agreement?

He shrugged. “Better than _Hamlet_.”

“Damning with faint praise. You didn’t enjoy it?”

“What a perfectly human question. Do you imagine enjoyment to be the purpose of literature?”

“Well a few hundred pages of _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ would be a good argument to the contrary _._ ”

Garak felt that one: the doctor was playing rougher than usual tonight. Must have been a _very_ productive day. “Well, I don’t know about enjoyment, but I found the play an excellent illustration of the follies and degradations of populist governance.”

“Ahh, and for me it illustrates the necessity of democracy. I suppose truth, in this case, is in the eye of the beholder.”

“A charming expression.”

_And it’s not the only charming thing this evening,_ he allowed himself to think. The doctor was smiling in that tilted way that sparkled with the lure of challenge, his eyes practically dancing with each barb. If Bashir had been Cardassian, Garak might have interpreted the behavior as prelude to something altogether different.

_Well, dear Doctor, if it’s a fight you want, it will be my pleasure._ “I _was_ baffled by the titular character’s inability to adapt to political life. Any man who wishes to lead should be able to lie when necessary.” _And sometimes even when it’s not._

“His refusal to lie as political expedient shows integrity: one of his few admirable qualities, if you ask me.” Bashir made a dramatic, expansive gesture. “ ‘Must I with base tongue give my noble heart a lie that it must bear _?_ ’ ”

_My heart must be downright clogged._ “If he’d been more willing to ‘possess him of a harlot’s spirit’, as he says, he might have saved his own life.”

“Yes, well, a ‘harlot’s spirit’ may come more easily to some than others.” His eyes struck deep.

Yes, too damned perceptive.

“I’m having problems with _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ as well, now that you mention it.”

“It _is_ written for a mature audience. Perhaps in a few years…”

“Well then, as a man of _many_ years, perhaps you can explain Tarhe’ela’s story to me.”

Deep in his chest, a rumbling hiss began to unwind. The human wouldn’t understand, of course, but Garak tamped it down before it managed to escape all the same. It would do nothing but frighten him. “I’ll try to use small words.”

Precisely the glare he’d been aiming for, all pouting lips and ruddy cheeks. “Her story started out wonderfully; I was quite in love. But I have to say, by the end, it made me a bit…irate.”

“ _Irate_?” Perhaps there’d be no need to feign disagreement after all. “Tarhe’ela’s sacrifice is the most basic of the novel. Without it, the entire line of Anats would have been over before it began!”

“That may be but…she was an artist, Garak. A poet of breathtaking skill. That elegy for her father was  masterful, even in the translation—I can hardly imagine in the Cardasi.”

“ ‘The perek bow their scarlet heads, dripping marrow of the morning sun, the stars have skulked off to their beds, as I awake and you are gone _.’ ”_ He turned the contours of the words in his mouth like a fine kanar. “I’m glad you can at least appreciate that. Exquisite.”

“But it’s all for naught! All her talent, her skill—she puts it all aside to marry a man who doesn’t even love her. Just to improve the status of her family. She ends up a damned file clerk!” The heat radiating off him was better than a hot salt sauna. “All that beauty is…is lost!”

He basked. “Sacrifice requires loss, Doctor.”

“It’s propaganda, Garak. Propaganda trussed up in lovely prose. Generation after generation submitting themselves to be ground under the wheel of the State, only to raise their own children to do the same. It’s inhum—“ He stopped himself.

But Garak pressed. “Inhuman? Certainly. It is _utterly_ _Cardassian_. Creating and caring for a thriving family while adding a stitch or two to the tapestry of the State—that is everything. Tarhe’ela’s accomplishments are no less worthy for having been less…romantic.”

“Isn’t there _any_ room for the individual? For dreams and passions? For finding your own way?”

Garak leaned back, amused. There they were again, the human’s ‘passions.’ Did he think of nothing else? “Do you know what I’m passionate about, Doctor? Gardening. And I’m good at it, really, as our dinner here illustrates. But I was given the opportunity to improve my family’s status and to serve Cardassia. Should I have stayed in my garden and pleased myself by weeding _kis’sa_ and trimming the verge?”

The doctor hesitated only a moment before he said, “I think I might have preferred that you had.”

He let a small, thin bit of that internal hiss sound. “Then _you_ would still be sitting in Kaltak.”

To that, the doctor, wisely, said nothing.

Eventually, some part of him knew, he would have to rein this human back in. Eventually, he would have to reassert his control over the situation and remind the human that he wasn’t _truly_ sitting at the _gelat_ house. That they weren’t truly friends or colleagues or…anything else. He allowed his hand to brush the CPP activator in his pocket.

But that moment didn’t have to be now.

He tried a different tack. “Sacrifices like Tarhe’ela’s aren’t entirely selfless. She died knowing that she had contributed more to the future of her children than she had taken from it.”

“Sounds selfless to me.”

“Serving one’s family is _always_ selfish, Doctor. What are one’s children but an extension of the self in time?”

 “A _romantic_ notion for a man with no children.”

The naked appraisal in the doctor’s eyes discomfited him more than a hundred insults. Perhaps the moment was closer than he’d thought.

“We all make our sacrifices,” he sighed, deciding against it again. “If you’ll forgive—“

The crash was sudden.

Instinct brought him to his feet and took his eyes to the corners, the shadows--all empty. The world sharpened, every sound and movement painted across his senses in sudden vibrant color.

_Not an explosive_.

Ever since Ab-Tzenketh that was the first, quivering question his mind asked.

_Not an explosive._ No steps, no voices. The walls were whole, and the silence remained undisturbed save for the quiet scrape of chair as the doctor stood.

They stared suspiciously at one another across the stretch of table.

“What was that?” Bashir asked finally.

“You tell me, Doctor.”

“You can’t seriously think it has something to do with me?”

_Oh, I can, Doctor._ But in this case, he didn’t. The taut alertness in the doctor’s body was entirely unfeigned. “No, merely that you have the better hearing.”

“It—it came from the kitchen. Sounded like crashing…or falling.”

Garak’s fingers found the grip of the disruptor tucked at his hip and pushed through into the kitchen. The room stood as placid as he’d left it, a few dishes sitting innocent on the counter, a half-drunk bottle of kanar decanted and casting a long, still shadow in the moonlight.

Room empty. Windows unbroken. Blinds drawn. But something— _something is different_ —

_The teapot._

He found her sprawled, hidden by the bulk of the counter, at the jamb of the backdoor. The door itself lay cracked on its hinges, and, outside, the nightlocusts screeched, grating across the grayscale silence all around.

She’d pulled a shelf down as she fell, the ceremonial teapot scattered in jagged crumbs around her.

Garak had seen plenty of corpses in his time. After a while, contrary to what most imagined, one grew inured. Eventually the glazed serenity of the eyes, the stiffness of the limbs, the eerie stillness of chest and mouth were mere details to be noted just as one might note height or eye color or symmetry of face.

No, the sight of death hadn’t affected him for many years.

What he’d never quite grown immune to was the sight of the _dying_. Shivering agony in the eyes. Fluttering, soundless lips. The clutch of hands… _Loral…_

Every one of her gray hairs was still perfectly in place. It seemed obscene.

“Garak? Is everything alright?” The human’s voice was small. “Oh, God. Is she—wait--“

Before Garak could object, the doctor was crouched beside him, finger to Loral’s ashen temple. He took two breaths, brow furrowed, then switched to her wrist.

A terrible keening sound.

The doctor’s voice transformed, calm and strong in a way Garak wouldn’t have thought possible for one so young. “Loral, listen to me. You may be having a heart attack.”

She shook her head in silent terror. Pressed her hand to the center of her chest.

“Yes, but it’s alright: I have everything necessary to handle it in the medkit downstairs.”

Garak didn’t register what he was saying until the doctor’s urgent, commanding eyes pressed against his. “In the medkit _downstairs_.”

Garak sprang to retrieve it. The medkit he found in the laboratory was Parmak’s, the rugged hide bag with the small stitching of the Hebitian sun on the corner. Garak had bought it when Parmak got his job with the Bureau. A gift. Had he left it here? Had he—

_Focus, Elim._

His error didn’t occur to him until he was halfway back up the stairs. The door swept open in the moonlight. The screech of the insects…

_Damnit, you might as well have handed him the keys to skimmer and drawn him a map to the shuttleport._

But, to his relief, the only move the doctor had made was to prop Loral’s back slightly with a tablecloth. He sat beside her talking in low, gentle tones.

The boy…hadn’t taken it. As easy an out as he was like to have, and he’d stayed. Perhaps he’d believed that bit about the theta-band detonator after all…

Inside he quaked with a terrible mix of adrenaline and gratitude and fear, but the hand that extended the medkit to the doctor was as steady as ever. He looked at it with detached admiration. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The human didn’t respond, lost in the medical scanner.

_A probe’s mistake, Elim_. He could hear Tain’s voice, sharp with disgust. _Sentiment has dulled your wits._

Trying to stay out of the doctor’s way, he sat and took the old woman’s hand. _Now’s not the time, Father._

The medical scanner beeped worryingly. One didn’t have to be a doctor to recognize the urgency of the alarm. Loral’s eyes lolled in fear.

_Make yourself useful, for the love of State. You may not be able to handle her heart as the doctor can, but you can handle it in your own way…_

He forced a light expression. “Loral, if you wanted a day off, all you had to do was ask.”  A tug in her cheeks. _Good_. “You’re not to die until you’ve finished preparing the cakes for Union Day… and, you know, thinking on it, I haven’t the first clue how to steam those K’r’rausian silk tunics. Imagine! Me on Union Day without my silk tunics, Loral! A _true_ tragedy.”

The dry exhale of what might have been a chuckle.

“No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to stick around a bit longer, my dear.”

For the briefest of seconds, he felt Bashir glance up from the scanner. Their eyes met and something stirred. Deep, from a place he barely recognized.

He hoped the doctor saw the same respect reflected back at him.

Bashir cleared his throat. “Alright, Loral. It _is_ a heart attack. I’m going to start by trying a mixture of medications that may be able to resolve the blockage on its own. If not, we’re going to need to get you to a medical facility as soon as possible.”

She nodded, trained on the doctor’s face. The hate there had burned away and only desperation remained.

Garak watched as the doctor administered the hypospray and, feeling the well of his wit suddenly run dry, he leaned back into the wait. _Keep your eyes clear, Elim. She’ll be looking to you._ He forced a half-smile: it felt uncomfortable, like wearing a too-small shoe, but he knew it would look convincing. Convincing was his specialty. _Not such a bad thing to be possessed of a harlot’s sprit just now, is it?_

And slowly, ever so slowly, the deep lines of pain in her face softened. Her grip on his hand relaxed, and the sharp knife’s edge of pain in her eyes dulled into exhaustion.

“Yes, that’s looking much better now.” The relief in the doctor’s voice was the first sign he’d shown of fear. “Mister Garak, if you could please get Loral a glass of water and contact an emergency health facility. The blockage seems to have cleared, but a Cardassian doctor should examine her, just to be sure.”

But Loral was having none of it. A new worry had etched itself in the lines that webbed her lips, and she was trying desperately to make the words emerge. “Yesi… Bakit…”

_Oh, three hells, the children._

“I—I’m sorry—I don’t understand—“ The doctor fiddled with his UT then looked to Garak helplessly.

But he had already made his way to the comm.

Parmak lived only twenty minutes away, but when the heart races, time slows, and all Garak could do was sit on the ground and watch the tinge of moonlight slide along the floor, washing over a few more shards of broken pottery. _I really should sweep those up. That won’t be safe for the children._

But he found he hadn’t the momentum. Instead he sat and listened to the gentle clicking sounds of the doctor’s instruments.

Bashir was absorbed, utterly overtaken by the act of saving this woman. Garak wondered, absently, if the notion of escape had even occurred to him: if he had even noticed the backdoor gaping open, inviting him to freedom. Somehow, seeing the depth of passion in the boy’s eyes, he doubted it.

_He may be a boy, but he_ is _good at this._ And truthfully, the purpose and strength reflected in his face made Bashir look, for the first time, not like a boy but a man. _Perhaps all those passions are worth something after all._

Parmak’s footsteps were familiar but quick with worry. He offered Garak a hand up, but Garak pulled it away as quickly as possible, vulnerability stinging like an open wound.

_No, Elim. It’s the adrenaline. Don’t let it fool you._

“Parmak, I’ve given her 10 cc of—“

“Yes, perfect, Doctor Bashir. Yes. I’ll--”

Loral was straining, trying to look beyond the doctors to Garak. The gray had returned to her cheeks, and her _chufa_ was a more reassuring shade of blue.

He nodded to her. “I’ve got them, Loral. Rest now.”

The night was warm, but once alone on the other side of the door, he allowed himself the smallest of shivers before he continued on.

 

*****************

The children carried their things to the skimmer with the acceptance of those well-acquainted with loss. They had been roused from their beds by bad news too many times before, and, even when he reassured them, guarded doubt never left their eyes. These children knew better than to give in too easily to hope.

He’d wished them pleasant dreams and tucked them into his bed, promising they would see their grandmother first thing in the morning. Both children kept their silence clutched to them. They wouldn’t sleep tonight. Garak wished there was something he could do, but that was not the way of things. The suffering and anxiety of such a night was always a burden to be borne in the darkness, alone. The earlier they grew accustomed to it, the better.

Bashir, much to his immense relief, had returned to his room and was, from the sound of it, sleeping. Garak allowed himself only a moment’s pause outside the man’s door. He touched its smooth surface, almost eager to rouse the human, before he returned to himself and moved on. Yes, even at his age, it was hard to bear such things alone.

 Parmak dozed in a chair beside Loral, his light braid tipped forward and down his shoulder.

“Kelas.”

 His eyes raised to Garak’s, and, through the last haze of sleep, he smiled fondly. “Elim. She’s doing just fine.”

Garak released a breath hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you.”

The pause was comfortable, like the thin soft of a well-used blanket. Garak rested his hands on the back of the chair, looking down first at Loral and then at Parmak. In the half-lamplight, the man’s face was beautiful, shadows of age tracing only the happy contours of his mouth and eyes.

Parmak rubbed at his neck with a small groan. “Bashir made himself useful tonight.”

Garak said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve what we’ve done to him.”

“Careful, Parmak.”

The happy lines disappeared. “Is it sedition, now, to say that a good man doesn’t deserve to be held prisoner?”

He sighed. His defenses had been battered already this evening, and, settled in for the siege, he couldn’t find it in himself to lecture or censure. It was a fool’s errand with Parmak anyway. “Thank you for your help, Kelas. You’re a good man, too.”  _And you don’t deserve what I have to do to you, either._ “I’m sure you need to be getting home.”

He knew the hurt that passed across the other man’s face without looking. “I—I can stay. If you need—“

“Good night, Parmak. I’m sure Doctor Bashir will welcome your help in the morning.”

Once empty, he took Parmak’s place in the chair, trying not to think. Trying to hear nothing but the Morfan Sea. Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow. Just as Master Pralad had taught them. The static insinuated itself, warm waves, over his tension.

“You should have let him stay, _s’sava_.” Loral’s voice was rough and tender at the same time, and it cut through the imagined waves like the sharp keel of a sailboat.

“Meddlesome woman.”

When she opened her eyes, they were bloodshot but kind. “Someone has to keep you from dying a lonely old man.”

“I’ll settle for dying an _old_ man. Many aren’t so lucky.” He regretted saying it, seeing the sudden flare of sadness in her face. She knew that fact too well. “Not like you, you cussed old thing. How are you feeling?”

“Like a woman too old to keep this up much longer. How are the children?”

“Safe though I wouldn’t say sound. They’ll be better once they’ve seen you. I don’t think they believed me when I told them you were alive.”

The silence stretched long enough that Garak almost thought she’d fallen asleep again. Instead, she gave a jarring chuckle.

“I can’t possibly imagine what you find amusing about any of this.”

“Can’t you?” She made a weak attempt at a smile. “Life is funny, _s’sava_. The Federation took everything from me, and now I owe my life and the lives of my grandchildren to a Starfleet doctor.”

Oh yes. Life was full of such little ironies. _I argued myself into holding a Starfleet prisoner for Enabran Tain and now…_

 He let the waves wash over the unfinished thought.

“What’s going to happen to him, _s’sava_?”

He knew, painfully and exactly, what she meant. Bashir. Will they let him live?

“I don’t know, Loral. I really don’t.”

And for the first time in a long time the not knowing bothered him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is: hope it was worth the slightly extended wait. 
> 
> Ahh, is there anything more entrancing than a good flirt-fight followed by watching Julian be the heroic doctor. Poor Garak. He has no chance.  
> And poor Parmak. There will be more on Parmak and Garak's past in the next two chapters.
> 
> The bit at the end where Garak clears his mind by imagining the sound of the Morfan Sea: I can't for the life of me remember where I read that, but I'm sure it came from somewhere that wasn't just the cob-webbed basement of my mind. I have read so much Treklit and so many fantastic Garashir fanfics that it all kind of slides together at times. If anyone knows, please let me know so I can give credit to whomever passed that shiny bit of headcanon on to me. EDIT: Thanks to savorybreakfasts for reminding me that it was from Prevailing's Your Mark Has Been Made, which is wonderful and quite sexy thus far. Like everything she has done, really. Thank you, Prevailing (and hope you don't mind)!
> 
> Next chapter is Julian again. There will be children, breakfast, an explanation of Cardassian flirting via Parmak and _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ , and more. Barring the unforeseen, I should be able to update this time next week. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is patiently waiting for me, and thank you even more to everyone who has shared their thoughts, reactions, faces, noises, and love. Please keep it up whenever you feel moved to do so! It is priceless and always motivating to know that people are still with me on this ride...


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

 

By the time Parmak assessed her, Loral was stable. Parmak confirmed his treatment, thank God, and added only a hypo to combat the possibility of secondary clotting events. Not for the first time in his life, Julian thanked his lucky stars—or at least the doctors on Adigeon Prime—for enhanced memory. He’d heard the protocol for Cardassian cardiac events in passing at a comparative anatomy lecture two years earlier, and while it was similar to that of humans, the drugs and their dosages were just different enough to be problematic if confused.

_There’s another life my illegal procedure saved_. On his more morose days, he wondered how many lives saved would make up for the life his parents had taken. _Perhaps I should do a tally._  

As soon as they’d carried Loral to the sofa to sleep, Parmak collapsed at the dining table and dragged out the _civit._ Julian didn’t complain about the smell this time. He took the proffered glass with immense gratitude.

And Parmak explained, without prompting, why Garak had left in such a rush.

Loral’s daughter-in-law had been killed five years before in a terrorist attack on Bajor. She’d been a maintenance engineer in Rakantha province, and the military facility where she was housed had been bombed while its inhabitants slept. Luckily for her, her two children had been back on Cardassia with their father and Loral.

Loral’s son had been killed just a year ago in a Maquis raid on the Cardassian colony at Ravnik V. He’d trained as a construction foreman but had joined the military after his wife’s death for the extra income. He’d never had the stomach for it, and Loral said she cursed every day that she’d allowed him to go.  Though, Parmak admitted, she said that quietly. And not to Garak.

Now Loral was all that remained, and she’d been forced out of retirement in order to support her two grandchildren. While the elderly were revered on Cardassia, few felt comfortable hiring them, especially those like Loral who were well beyond the age of work. When Garak had seen her at the market turning in a debtor’s chit for a bag of _val_ , he’d hired her on the spot.

He’d asked what wage the army paid her son and offered double.

Parmak chuckled, saying Loral insisted the exchange had ended with:

_You’re too generous, s’sava. I don’t want your pity._

  _My house might be_ worse _than a war zone, my dear. Don’t assume I’m being generous just yet._

Loral had worked tirelessly for him ever since.

Julian listened, swirling the pungent liquid in its glass. _God, maybe Garak’s right. Maybe I really_ can’t _understand anything._ Because the one thing growing older seemed most intent on teaching him was just how damned complicated everything—and _everyone—_ could be.

There had been a beat, on the floor in the kitchen, when he’d looked up to see Garak watching him. The moment stuck, a persistent image frozen in the daguerreotype of moonlight. For those frantic few seconds that they joined eyes over the dying woman, Julian had seen…gratitude. Respect. _Fear_. Such expressive words seemed ill-fit to the inquisitor, and yet he doubted even an agent of the Obsidian Order could feign what he’d seen floating for one unguarded moment in the Cardassian’s eyes. 

For that moment, Julian had almost forgotten who Garak was. For a moment, he had seen the man Parmak described.

“I suppose I can understand some of what you saw in him, then,” Julian said, finally working up the courage to down the drink. “In Garak, I mean.”

If Parmak was surprised that Julian knew, he gave no sign. “Hmmm. I’m glad someone can.  Sometimes I wonder myself.”

Julian locked his own door behind him. Just before turning out the lights, he pulled the phial from his sleeve and tucked it back into the hole he’d made between mattress and bedpost.

It would have to wait for another night.

 

******************

Having children in the house changed things.

Miles had told him that once, but he hadn’t really understood. He’d assumed it meant there was always someone hogging the computer terminal or that the place was constantly awash in little multi-colored whatsits or that you had to wait until they were out of earshot to let loose with a good string of cursing.

But it was more than that. The entire feel of the house shifted: before, it had been a prison. Comfortable, not like Kaltak, of course, but a prison just the same. 

Breathy giggles woke him. _Decidedly_ un _-prisonlike_. Suddenly, like a home.

Two children, a boy and a girl, were framed in the doorway, watching.

“Why’s he so… _pink_?” The girl’s tiny voice was too loud, like a stage whisper.

“They’re like that. Some are even pinker. Some are brown as Ikorian lavastone.”

“It’s like the vole Dedi found under the reclamator—“

Unable to help himself, Julian chuckled. The two children yipped and scurried away.

As he shuffled into the washroom, he couldn’t help glancing in the mirror, recalling those Cardassian voles from the station. _Well, I have to admit, it’s not too far off…_

What would two children so young know about humans? The girl couldn’t have been much more than seven, and the boy about ten. Surely they were taught about the Border Wars in school, about the Federation and Earth. He shuddered to imagine what that lesson was like, hacked and slashed into a shape made to please the State, resembling history in none but broad strokes. Were they taught to fear him? To see him as an enemy? An inferior?

Hopefully his presence might change that. In his experience, the clutching vines of history had penetrated too deeply into the hearts of those Garak’s age. Peace might cut off the hate at the stalk, but the roots would remain, tangled forever, on both sides.

But these children—they were still growing and learning. Perhaps he could give them one counterpoint to the propaganda.

_Look at me:  Julian Bashir, Federation Ambassador to Cardassia_. Well, to the grade school set, at any rate.

Washed and dressed, he went to check on Loral. She slept still, her color returned to normal, her hair newly brushed and arranged. A look at the scanner’s log told him she was out of the woods: it would take her a few days to get her back on her feet, but she would be ready to steam silk tunics and curse at him under her breath in no time. A few lifestyle changes, perhaps. He would talk with Garak about a reduced workload and about scheduling a series of regular checkups.

He’d grown accustomed to leaving his report to Starfleet on the table and carrying breakfast to the lab to eat and work in alternating bursts. The feeling of imminent breakthrough was unmistakable, with its frenetic winnowing of question and answer, and so he knew that he and Parmak would find something soon. And the sooner they found it, the sooner he could get off this godforsaken planet and back home.

_Assuming they’ll honor their agreement, that is. And assuming I’ll have anything left to go back to._ But those were worries for a later date.

As he passed through the dining room this morning, however, he found breakfast already made, dishes laid out steaming. A mauve silk napkin lay folded in his seat, a bone-white plate set at his place. Garak sat across from the elaborate setting, drinking his usual rokassa juice.

He barely glanced up from his padd. “Good morning, Doctor.”

“Uh…good morning. This is…” _What is this?_

The boy Julian had seen in his doorway pushed into the room with yet another basket of food, this one filled to the brim with _voti._ When he saw Julian, he barked. “Yesi, _jo’an at!_ ”

“Doctor Baa’chir!” the girl squeaked, scrambling up from a corner where Julian hadn’t even noticed her. She rushed to pull out the chair for him.

“I—oh—well, thank you.” When he sat, she leaned in to tuck the napkin at his neckline, hands trembling, obviously trying to avoid actually coming into contact with him. When he smiled down at her, her eyes widened, overtaking her face. _God, the girl is all eyes_. “Thank you…Yesi, was it? I’ve got it.”

“He’s so warm,” she stage-whispered to her brother after. “Like the sunning array at the park.”

“Yesi, _lis’sea_ , another interesting thing about humans is that they have uncommonly acute hearing.” Garak sounded every bit the stern father, but Julian was sure he caught the smallest hint of amusement behind the padd.

Her scales flushed dark along the ridges. “Forgive me, _s’sava_.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I _am_ rather warm, you’re right about that.” The wink he gave only seemed to alarm her more. “Well…this is quite the spread! What have we got here?”

The boy recited with that halting, effortful voice Julian remembered well from his days in school. “ _Illarak_ in brown butter and vigran, regova eggs scrambled with sorvan herb and milk, taspar with _kunapur_ salad, _voti_ with _leejat_ jam and…” His eyes closed as he did battle with the words. “Yoatmial. With blue berriks.”

“Berries,” Garak corrected. He nodded back soberly.

As a young man, Julian had a recurring nightmare in which he was led to a lectern on a stage. Hundreds of people looked on, faces blank with expectation. His parents and whomever he happened to have a crush on at the time sat on the front row, waiting for him to begin his speech. A speech he couldn’t remember. A speech that evaporated from his too-dry tongue the moment he opened his mouth.

As the children looked at him now, he felt the same panicked emptiness. _What’s my line then?_ He cast about to Garak for help, but the other man hadn’t even looked up.

Julian settled for what he hoped was a winning smile. “And…it all looks wonderful, erm, Bakit. But…I…surely it can’t all be for me? Won’t you both sit down and have a few bites? Mister Garak?”

He knew from the uneasy look on Bakit’s face he must have misspoken.

“Oh, I mean I could eat a horse, of course, but—“

Bakit stiffened. “I didn’t see anything with that name in the replicator, _s’sava_ , but if you describe it—“

“Oh, no, no. It’s an expression. A horse is—well it’s a bit like a riding hound, I suppose--”

“Humans eat hounds, _bahi_?” Yesi’s eyes welled. _Oh, God, not tears…_

“Children.” Garak’s voice took on the quality of a whip wielded but not cracked. Both children straightened. “Everything is in order. You’ve done your duty. Now go wash your faces and prepare yourselves for school. I will be _most displeased_ if you’re not back here and ready to leave in the next fifteen minutes.”

They bolted, heavy steps pounding up the stairs.

Julian didn’t miss the flicker of pride on the inquisitor’s face as he watched them go. _I would never have taken you for the fatherly type, Mister Garak._ It made the Cardassian appear, for an absurd moment, incongruously gentle.  

“Pitter patter of tiny feet, eh?” Julian joked as he pulled the napkin from his neck and set it in his lap. “I have the feeling I missed something here with this very… _ample_ breakfast. Traditional Cardassian ‘thank you’ or something?”

Garak didn’t seem amused. He went back to his juice and his padd. “Something like that.”

“I once had a Bajoran woman bring me hasperat soufflé every morning for six months after I delivered her first son. It was a difficult—“

“Doctor, I believe you’ve failed to appreciate the depth of the ritual.”

_I might as well be Yesi the way he talks to me_. “Well, do enlighten me, then. I’m not trying to give offense.”

“You’ve saved the life of their head of household, Doctor. The Lorals owe you a _tremendous_ debt. _This_ isn’t a thank you, Doctor. This is merely acknowledgment of the debt.”

“I was doing my job. Loral doesn’t owe me a thing.”

“Would you insult her by denying it? When you imply that saving her life was worthless, you as good as say that Loral _herself_ is worthless.”

“Alright, forgive me, _s’sava_ ,” he snapped, with enough venom to make the other man finally look up from his reading. “Tell me what I’m meant to do here.”

Garak’s eyes drifted over him, clearly trying to judge his sincerity. _That’s right. I want to be gracious. Is that so unbelievable?_ Sure, he was being held against his will, and sure, the woman in question had been nothing but hateful to him since the day they’d met. But, after a night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining the loss she had experienced, he was beginning to understand. He thought fleetingly of Chief O’Brien. A good man, but the same revulsion hid behind his eyes each time he saw a ‘Cardie.’ Roots around his heart, too.

It hadn’t been personal for her, and he wouldn’t make it personal now. _Julian Bashir, Federation Ambassador to Cardassia._

“Eat your breakfast, Doctor. Do not offer any part of it away. Do not thank the children. Just eat it to honor their gesture.”

_Something is different_ , his mind alerted him. Something in the inquisitor’s voice had changed. Sadness. Sadness wrapped around…something.

Their eyes met again, bringing him back, for a stomach-tightening second, to that moonlight moment. “I owe you a debt as well, Doctor. I won’t forget it.” Despite the warmth of the words, Garak’s voice was cold and level.

A punch to the chest might have surprised him less. The _voti_ tasted dry and rough. “I—“ He swallowed with difficulty. “Yes…well, I’ll take a shuttle and clearance through Cardassian space, and we’ll call it even then.” 

The chuckle this earned him was a relief. They passed the rest of breakfast in uncomfortable silence.

By the time the children filed back into the dining room, hair combed, bookbags in hand, Julian had emptied half the plates. He’d had to unbutton the top button of his trousers, but he was determined to make a good show of it.

The satisfied look on Bakit’s face told him he’d done right.

 

********************************

Normally, Julian carried _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ with him to lab. It came in handy when, like this morning, they had to wait on a particularly complex simulation to run. But today, when he’d lifted it from the side table, it felt heavy. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Noticing its absence, Parmak asked if he’d finished.

“If only. To be honest I’m starting to feel as if the ‘never-ending’ bit is meant to be taken literally.”

“So says every school child in the Union at one time or another.”

“It’s just—it’s _dull_. Every story has the same sad ending, and, the few times I’ve found myself actually interested in a character, they go and give up everything I was just beginning to like about them.”

“ ‘For Cardassia.’ ”

“Yes! I mean, doesn’t Cardassia ever get enough?  Can’t a person be a loyal citizen _and_ have a little left over for themselves?”

“Not in Cardassian literature, no.” Parmak stood and stretched, putting down the padd he’d been reading and leaning in conspiratorially.  “To tell you the truth, I’m not enamored of the novel myself. Except for Prina and Ghelan. The romance is a lively respite in the midst of all that somber moralizing.”

Julian paused. At first he thought he must be confusing some of the characters, but as he ran through the pages in his mind, he saw the names in clear black and white. “Romance? That bit was a _romance_?”

“Prina and Ghelan are _the_ quintessential romance in Cardassian literature. In Cardassian _art_. Paintings of them, songs, odes, sculpture. They _embody_ romance.” Parmak’s browridges shot up. “You…didn’t realize?”

The bloody Romeo and Juliet of Cardassia, and he’d skimmed through totally clueless. “I…have a lot to learn about Cardassian romance, it seems.”

All the characters in question had ever done was fight. Sixty pages of bickering and insults and political debate, which, of course, was all well and good, but no one ever said “shut up and kiss me already!” like a proper human romance. He tried to explain that to Parmak.

“Kiss?” A word far too sibilant on the Cardassian’s tongue.

“Kiss, yes… a way of expressing affection. Two people press their lips together. Sometimes tongues get involved.”

Parmak didn’t hide his disgust well. “Not terribly hygienic, you must admit.”

“The best things usually aren’t.”

He conceded the point. “I have a lot to learn about human romance, too, it seems. Tell me, when a human is attracted to another, do they never act differently than they feel? Or is the frank expression of emotion preferred?”

Oh, he was truly out of his depth representing humanity in this. He’d always been one to ram the gates, full speed ahead, heart on the sleeve and the chest and wherever else it could be displayed, but he was well aware he was more eager than most in this regard. Of course, a little playful sparring could be fun, but nothing like Prina and Ghelan. “Sometimes…you play it cool, pretend you feel less. You might even tease or argue a bit and, you know, flirt.”

“Then you should understand Prina and Ghelan.”

“Ghelan calls her a ‘worthless sore on the backside of the State’!” Julian couldn’t imagine a comment like that ever getting him anything other than a well-deserved smack. “That’s not _flirting:_ that’s _fighting_. They do everything except come to blows.”

The Cardassian’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement. “That’s _borroka_.”

It was his turn to try the flavor of the word. “ _Borroka_?”

“It’s the name of a martial art taught to young children—sparring that uses a padded staff to reduce injury. But over time it’s become the way we describe the more combative form of love.”

_Combative love: how very…Cardassian._

He reconsidered Prina and Ghelan. Sure, they had eventually been Joined, but their arguments had been so rancorous he’d assumed the marriage was somehow another one of those vaunted sacrifices made for the family. They’d appeared, up until the moment of Joining, to do nothing but disagree and insult one another. And occasionally brush knees. “How do you know…I mean, what if you really don’t like someone? What if you _really_ disagree?”

Something in Parmak’s face told him this must be particularly difficult to translate. He’d made the same face when his Vulcan roommate had asked him to explain a ‘gut instinct’. Some concepts lacked an easy cultural corollary.

But Parmak eventually settled on one. “For Cardassians, there are really only two emotions: passion and its lack. Different types of passion are all masks on the same face. If one hates, one may love. If one loves, one may rage. If you _truly_ don’t care, well, you don’t argue. You’re brusque. Polite. You ignore. You placate.” Some of Julian’s confusion must have shown on his face. “Is it so incomprehensible?”

But it wasn’t that he didn’t understand. It was that he was starting to understand _too well._ “No, not at all. I—we have a saying on Earth: there’s a thin line between love and hate. I suppose Cardassians just like to play a little closer to the line, that’s all.”

Parmak thought about that a moment before nodding. “I can see why Garak enjoys these discussions. Humans are perhaps less alien than I imagined.”

_Yes, perhaps Garak_ is _enjoying these discussions._

He excused himself and left Parmak to watch the clock. He needed a moment to think. He needed information.

His terminal was disconnected from almost every nonmedical database available, but he did have access to the translation matrix for Federation Standard and the basic language and culture database from the Union Archives. He’d wheedled that concession out of his jailer after a “starling display of ignorance” regarding Cardassian rights of succession. He hadn’t really had the time to look into the database any further, but now…

He stared at the cursor on the screen as it blinked, daring him.

He typed in the search term: _borroka._

> **borroka (bo’ro.k** **ə** **)**
> 
> 1\. Martial arts traditionally taught to children ages--

Julian scrolled down.

> 2\. Combative behavior for the display of attraction to another, especially following the idiomatic forms of _sita_ , _ras’sat_ , _laket_ , _kital._

He sighed. _Why am I not surprised that Cardassian romance comes in list format..._

While the idea of codified forms for this sort of thing seemed a bit bloodless and confining, he had to admit it held some appeal, too. He’d certainly wished before that wooing came with a rule book. _Might have managed to look like less of a clueless git over the years…_

He selected the expanded entry.

> The main forms of borroka are metaphorical realizations of the eponymous martial arts’ forms.
> 
> **_Sita_** – _advance_. Both parties engage in heated conversation, including: debate on provocative topics, forced disagreement, pointed insult, and challenges to or critiques of opinions.

He blinked. Well, sure, Prina and Ghelan had done that. Plenty of it. But there must be such a thing as genuine debate on Cardassia. Surely not every couple debating were a heartbeat away from shoving their tongues down one another’s throats. That in and of itself…

> **_Ras’sat_** – _feint_. One party feigns disdain or disbelief and threatens to discontinue association.

Julian paused, the shape of the romance between Prina and Ghelan pulling into focus. Prina expressed her opinion on the taxation of staple goods to subject worlds, and Ghelan insisted he was done trying to make her see reason. Prina refuted his stance on the beauty of Kavit’s trochaic verse, and Ghelan insisted they should “discontinue these conversations altogether.”

In fact he was _always_ threatening to “discontinue these conversations altogether”—usually after Prina challenged him in some way. Julian had thought Ghelan was just a bit of an ass, but…that was part of the game, it seemed.

> **_Laket_** **–** _reverse_. One party grudgingly agrees with some position or advice or offers a genuine compliment.

About thirty pages into their association, Ghelan had worn green. Prina, in a rare moment of condescension, allowed that he looked less plain. 

Twenty pages before, he and Prina had argued about the garishness of the color, Ghelan asserting that it was a color unbecoming a man.

Goodness. Cardassian flirting was…subtle.

> **_Kital –_** _touch_. Both parties introduce physical contact, beginning with happenstance touch (brief contact of the elbows, knees, or feet, touching of the shoulders, or brushing of the cheek) and escalating to more intimate forms of contact, including the pressing of cheeks, touching and tasting of the neck, biting of the

He stabbed a finger at the terminal, and it went black.

Prina and Ghelan’s story might have been a perfect replica of the entry’s descriptions.  Re-running the plot with these new rules in mind, he could see each form: advance, feint, reverse, touch. Again and again, in different combinations, until the glinn and the engineer had been Joined, and Ghelan was sent off to war. To sacrifice himself. _Of-fucking-course._

He slumped back in his chair, staring at the faint outline of his face reflected in the black of the screen.

He’d known that Garak enjoyed their debates—that he was amused by the bickering and even the insults. He’d assumed it was a personality quirk. That a man who cowed people for a living might enjoy having one fight back.

But he had never imagined it could be construed as…

He remembered the predatory look in the inquisitor’s eyes as they argued about Tarhe’ela. A small almost inaudible growl had rumbled in the Cardassian’s chest: at the time, Julian had worried he might have flung one dagger too many.

In retrospect it might have meant something altogether different.

The thought was awkward, but he turned it over in his mind, unwilling to let it lie unexamined.

There _was_ a lovely shape to their repartee, like the give-and-take of a good racquetball match. Julian often caught himself enjoying it, too, though he certainly hadn’t come close to growling yet. At times, he even felt a sort of electricity building. Perhaps that’s what _borroka_ was about?

Thus far, the only form he’d observed clearly and unmistakably was _sita_. The man _did_ love to debate. Could create one from thin air, in fact. But then, so could Julian, and he wasn’t flirting. At least not knowingly.

_No, but maybe you should be_ …

If he wanted Garak to lower his defenses, to allow him into the circle of his space, pursuing this might be to his benefit. He had a blueprint, after all, and he was a dabhand at flirting, when it came to it. This was just—what had Parmak said? A different mask on the same face.

And, if he was honest, the idea was a bit…

_No, that thought we’ll leave unexamined for the time being, thank you very much._

Before heading back downstairs to check on the simulation, he picked up _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ from the side table, weighing it, heavy, in the palm of his hand.

He was going to have to finish the damned thing after all.

***********************

He ran into Garak on the stairs.

Mind still full of Prina and Ghelan, it caught him off guard. The sudden press of the other man’s body was close. And uncomfortable.

“Something wrong, Doctor?”

“So--sorry. No.”  His mind whirred stupidly. “I mean, well, yes.” The glint in the Cardassian’s eye felt keener now, sharpened by his knowledge. Somehow he was unable to meet the other man’s face—unable to smooth over his sudden stutter of nerves. _Like a sodding school boy caught out, that’s what you look like._

He wiped his palms surreptitiously on his pant legs. “No, I, uh—I’d forgotten this.” He held up _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ with a forced grin.

_No, you idiot. You don’t grin. You sneer. Or sigh. Or_ anything _else._

Garak blinked. “Ah. Still working on it, are you? There are several children’s adaptations available if you like. Lovely pictures.”

The patronizing bite of the statement shocked him back to himself. _Cheeky bastard._ “Forgive my glacial pace, but I _have_ been rather busy with that pesky little epidemic, you might recall.”

“Oh, well, far be it from me to distract you from whatever _vital_ work you’re doing here in the staircase.”

Julian felt the volley take shape in his mind, the same way he could reach out and strike the racquetball just so.

“You can hardly help but distract in _that_ hideous thing.” He gestured to Garak’s shirt and met his eyes with a calculated hardness.

The three beats of silence Garak allowed were torture.

Then, he smiled.

_Point Bashir._

“I believe Doctor Parmak was looking for you downstairs.” 

Garak pushed past without another word.  As he passed, their shoulders brushed.

Julian shivered.

***********************

He scrolled through the results of the simulation again. It was the second time they’d run it, but he still couldn’t believe it.

“ _Drek!”_ Parmak slammed his hand down on the counter. Several phials jingled angrily back. Julian didn’t know precisely what the swear meant, but he understood the sentiment well enough.

All the Medical Bureau’s research had led to the conclusion that creating a vaccine from an inactivated virus would not provide enough immunity even in a multiple-dose regimen. Use of a live attenuated virus was out of the question. Test vaccines carried too high a risk of secondary mutation.

While the Bureau had moved on to testing safer synthetic subunit vaccines, he and Parmak had agreed to try a different route. For some time, the Federation had used DNA vaccines to combat influenza viruses on Earth. Altered DNA used for encoding the appropriate antigen was introduced directly into the host, and antigen production occurred within the host’s own cells. Along with several adjuncts to manage and boost immune responses over time, DNA vaccines had almost eliminated most major strains of influenza across the quadrant. 

So Bashir had decided to share that particular Federation secret. _I suppose you were right, Mister Garak. I do have some secrets that might benefit Cardassia._

The DNA premise hadn’t produced any unexpected side effects in simulation, but the latest adjunct formulation, which had shown such promise in their early runs, simply hadn’t panned out in the more robust computer model.

They both sat for a long while, staring at the results on the screen, willing the breakthrough to come.

When nothing came, Parmak let out a long sigh. “I need to step away. Could I interest you in a glass of kanar, Doctor?”

Any other day, he might have questioned the idea of having a drink so early. But failure ached, and his mind still rattled slightly after his encounter with Garak in the stairwell. A glass—a single glass maybe—might be just what the doctor ordered, as it were.

To his relief there was no sign of Garak anywhere in the house. Parmak seemed just as relieved by this and led Julian to the library where a bottle stood ready at the table. “I’m not in the mood to have our friend listening in today,” he explained to Julian’s questioning look.

So Parmak knew. Or perhaps he assumed. Perhaps, on Cardassia, one always assumed.

They drank in silence. He’d been in this room many times before, but only now, without Garak’s appraising eyes on him, was he comfortable enough to examine the contents of the shelves in detail. The spikes and spines of Cardasi script obscured most titles from him, but a few were recognizable. Surak’s writings in the original Vulcan. A series of volumes his rudimentary Romulan told him were a history of the Star Empire. The shelves dedicated to poetry had the most non-Cardassian works, including, he was interested to see, more than a few collections of Bajoran verse. No Terran authors there, though. _If_ _I make it back home alive, Mister Garak, I’m sending you some Shelley._ _A true romantic to remember me by._

He had meant to decline a second glass, but somehow ended up with a refill instead.

His circuit around the room eventually brought him to the window, and he hesitated only a moment before pulling back the shutter. The press of the heat was immediate and intense, but after his eyes adjusted, he stood for a long moment marveling at the view. While the window in his room afforded a dignified view of the administrative district far in the distance, this one offered the opposite perspective. Below, past the garden behind the house, the neighborhood stretched, all humble roofs and mismatched colors. Just at the line of the sky, scraggly bush and scrubland arched, promising nothing but desert.

He sighed and leaned against the window frame, letting himself revel in the tingling weight of his limbs as he watched life—Cardassian life—bustle in the street below.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Parmak’s words had the slowed edge of liquor. “Every night I was away, I dreamt of it. The stately towers of Tarlak and the white tops of _fanil_ trees in Coranum. I’m sorry you can’t truly appreciate it, Bashir. I’m sorry you’re here under these circumstances.”

“Yes, me too. I’d enjoy seeing more of it when I’m not terrified of causing the neighborhood to implode.” Julian collapsed into the chair where Garak normally sat in the evenings. He realized with a little consternation that he felt like a child transgressing, sitting in his father’s seat. He settled in anyway, determined not to yield to such a ridiculous notion.

His slowed brain finally caught his attention. “What do you mean ‘every night you were away’?”

“Garak didn’t tell you? No, I suppose he’d want—“ Whatever he was going to say, he thought better of it. “I spent three years in a labor camp. On Avenall VII.”

“Three years? Bloody hell. What for?”

“I was involved in some…undesirable events. Quite reckless, but I was convinced of my invulnerability and unaware of ‘how deep and bitter can be the well of suffering’, as Kavit says. The affliction of youth…no offense meant, Doctor.” Parmak gave him a bland smile. “I’m actually fortunate to have returned. Most who leave aren’t so lucky.”

Julian had sensed something about Parmak from the beginning. He was warmer and easier than Garak, sure, but there was something thoughtful and principled in his words as well—in the way he addressed Julian and in their work together. Somehow, the notion that Parmak wasn’t the model Cardassian didn’t surprise him. But something did.

“I’m surprised you would get involved with someone like Garak to begin with.”

Parmak laughed so loudly that Julian doubted anyone would need listening devices to hear it. “Oh, Bashir, you have no idea.” He was still chuckling and shaking his head, even as he sipped the last few drops of kanar from the bottom of his glass.

Julian warmed. _That’s love in his eyes, even if it is the wistful, lost kind._ Cardassian, human, it didn’t matter: that look was a universal. “Not so _borroka_ , it seems to me.”

“Oh, believe me, Bashir. There’s plenty of _borroka._ Fondness, yes, but hate, too. Caring for Elim is like falling in love with the full moon. One day it’s there for you, as clear and perfect as you could possibly imagine. But most days, you catch it only in pieces, and, some days—well, some days it’s absent altogether, and you begin to wonder if it was ever there at all.”

Just a day earlier, Julian wouldn’t have believed there was any moon to see. But he _had_ seen it, there over Loral’s body in the filtered light. A piece of the moon had eked through the mask the State had bolted to that usually inscrutable face.

“And Garak…does he…share your feelings?”

The small line that creased between Parmak’s eyes made Julian regret asking. “I—for a time, perhaps. Now…”

The slam of the door opening put an end to the thought.

“Parmak, what in the Hebitian hells are you thinking? I’ve been trying to comm you for an hour!” Garak’s face was hard, but worry quivered around lips and eyes.  He didn’t even glance in Julian’s direction. 

 “I—oh, my comm’s in the basement. We were discussing—“

“Yes, I can _smell_ the discussion on your breath.” Garak batted away the empty kanar bottle, and it rolled, inert and accusatory, on the floor beside them.  “Honestly, Kelas, it’s barely mid-day. Are you a doctor or a professional drunk now?”

Julian started to object, but clearly, Parmak didn’t need his help. He stood, swaying only slightly, gaining several inches on Garak in the process. “That’s the bat calling the regnar blind, if you ask—“

“I almost called the constabulary!”

“The _constabulary_? What, was the First Order unavailable?”

Unmistakable, a low hiss rumbled in the chests of both men.

“How was I to know? Bashir might have—“

“Your drama, Elim, honestly.”

“Well, I never really know with you, Parmak.”

 “And what is that supposed to mean, _Garak_? Afraid we’re up here plotting the overthrow of Central Command?”

That was enough to smother the heat that has risen in Garak’s face, coolness thrown over it like a fire blanket. Even Julian winced. _Make a note, Julian. No jokes about rebellion._ They didn’t land so well on Cardassia, it seemed.

“Elim, you have to—“

“The Medical Directorate is calling everyone in for the official announcement.”

Parmak was thrown. “Announcement?”

“They have a prototype vaccine, and they’re announcing the official trials on the ‘casts this afternoon.” Each syllable was perfectly smoothed and rounded, cold as Andorian winter. “Which you might have _known_ , if you were downstairs working instead of up here… _entertaining_.”

Despite the sun pouring in, the air was chilled.

“I suggest you get yourself a Tolian black and look to your _duty_.”

This was not _borroka_. Julian wasn’t sure how he knew, but the difference was clear. There was no padding on this staff: it was meant to wound.

Parmak stepped back, opening a gulf between them. Sunlight highlighted the emptiness.

“Forgive my oversight, Inquisitor. I promise I won’t give you cause for concern again.”

Garak remained turned away toward the shine of the city long after Parmak had gone, stiff and uncertain lines of his body sketched in red sun. It wasn’t until the slam of the front door echoed back at them and Julian began to creep, uncomfortable, towards the hallway, that Garak returned to life, turning his utterly composed face towards Julian.

“I’ll patch the ‘cast through to your terminal, Doctor.”

Julian’s first thought might have been about the vaccine—about what it meant for him and his detainment. It might have been about Parmak and whether their failure would affect him professionally. But instead, he was caught on the eyes of the man across from him. He couldn’t have named what he saw—couldn’t have even been sure it was there. But he felt it nonetheless. An…ache.

 “I—are you—okay?”

“Save your concern, Doctor. _I’m_ not the one who stinks of kanar at one in the afternoon.” Every note of the statement sang with the absence of feeling.

Only two emotions for Cardassians, and somehow Julian was seeing them both at once.

 

*********************

Julian was not looking forward to dinner.

After the scene in the library that afternoon, he’d thought Garak might skip the event altogether: he’d done so several times when important business kept him late or locked away in his office. But, to Julian’s disappointment, he commed at the usual time, all crisp politeness.

One thing Julian had learned in their time together was how to read the inquisitor in a sort of inverse: when Garak snarked and bit, things were well. The sharper the tongue, the smoother the road.  Civility, however—civility was a certain sign of danger ahead.

The elaborate frown waiting for him across the table didn’t do much to convince him otherwise. “Doctor.”

“Mister Garak.” Usually this earned him a correction, but his dining companion didn’t appear in the mood for it tonight.

“I apologize in advance for dinner.” The plates between them showcased a small meat and egg salad covered in flecked, white sauce. “I’ve told Loral a hundred times to replace the _s’sast_ recipe in the replicator, but apparently it will have to be one hundred and one. The replicator _does_ insist on putting fishpaste in _everything_.” His spoon clattered down in protest, and he pushed his plate away.

_Oh, lovely_. The inquisitor was having a sulk.

When Julian gave no response, the silence overtook them, interrupted only by the scrape of his cutlery or Garak setting down his glass with more force than was strictly necessary. For as much as he’d lectured Parmak that afternoon, Garak was clearly far into his cups already.

When it came to it, Julian rather _liked_ fishpaste. Any other night he might have said so, a sortie into the full-on action of debate. But this wasn’t the time. Tonight was a meal to push through and excuse himself from as soon as possible.

He’d spent most of the afternoon locked away in his room, watching the ‘casts, reading whatever medical reports Garak patched through, and trying not to let a black mood overtake him. The Bureau was crowing, promising the defeat of _heriot’za_ and an end to food shortages the disrupted labor in the north had caused in several provinces. With a stab of shame, Julian realized that he’d forgotten this aspect: breakfast and dinner met him every day with comforting efficiency. It was easy to forget hunger full belly. He tried to be grateful, fishpaste and all.

But the medical reports he’d read told a different story. The Bureau’s vaccine never would have made trials by Federation standards. Their simulations didn’t meet the guides he and Parmak had used, let alone the near impossible tolerances of Starfleet Medical. The notion of moving from such models to live trials made Julian nervous. He’d commed Parmak to ask about it but received no reply.

Not, of course, that Julian blamed him. After what had passed between the two Cardassians that afternoon, he didn’t expect Parmak would be in any hurry to return.

Which didn’t bode well for the future of Julian’s medical endeavors on Cardassia.

Or for his future in general.

That thought had been eating at him all afternoon: tiny, anxious bites he’d tried to ignore. He steeled himself to ask.   _Well, let’s see if his mood can get any worse_.

“What will Central Command do with me now that they have a vaccine?”

Garak seemed annoyed by the question.  “I expect they’ll wait until the trials are complete before they decide.”  

A skillful evasion: he ought to have anticipated that. “I was thinking I should shift my focus to developing an antiviral. For the people who _do_ get ill.”

A noncommittal sort of noise.

“You’d never guess it by listening to the ‘casts, but this vaccine is far from perfect. The computer model predicted a variety of unpleasant side effects: chills, aches, fever, disorientation. And that’s among the healthy: the vaccine is too dangerous to even administer to children, the elderly, the otherwise ill. They’ll all be vulnerable.”

“The briefings I read said there was a high likelihood herd immunity would protect the rest.”

“I’d hardly call at 54.3% probability a ‘high likelihood’.”

“Fine. An _acceptable risk_.”

“Risks usually seem much more acceptable when you’re not holding a dying child.”

Something flared in Garak’s eyes, and it touched his memory like a match to tinder. There he was: the inquisitor Julian had met so long ago in that violently bright room. _He’s probably broken men with a look like that._

“Perhaps in the Federation you have the luxury of healing _everyone_. Perhaps in the Federation, everyone gets to live. Cardassia isn’t such a paradise, Doctor: it is a land of deprivation, and individual survival is _not_ a right. Every citizen of the Union understands: some will suffer for the whole to survive.”

Suddenly missing Parmak, he sank back in his chair. “Hard, calculating, and _cruel_. I’d expect nothing less.”

“From Cardassia? Or from _me_?”

Julian shrugged. A fire smoldered in the furnace of his belly, a burn pile of all the anger and disappointment and indignation he’d been tamping down.  “Take your pick.”

Blue eyes narrowed to a point, and it stabbed. “You mean Parmak.”

“For one.”

 “Does it surprise you to find me cruel? If so, perhaps a reminder is in order.”

No words could have stoked the cinders more than such a threat. Julian recognized that he had touched too close, found a nerve. He’d finally found the line that Garak didn’t want him to cross.

And, by God, he was going to cross it.

“Not surprised to find you cruel: surprised to find you cruel to _him_. He _loves_ you, Garak. Why, is anybody’s guess. But he _loves_ you.”

The transformation produced by these words—if it could be considered as such—was small, yet it was more obvious than anything Julian had seen cross the Cardassian’s face before. Contempt wavered, the sharps of his eyes dulled. And, in a moment, his sneer was gone, replaced with a blank. Swept clean.

“Yes, I know.”

Julian had been looking forward to wiping that smile off the inquisitor’s face since they met, but now it came to it...  

Something in that blankness cooled him. “And you…don’t? Because that’s not how it looked—”

“As usual, Doctor, how I feel in this matter is immaterial.”

It might as well have been a line from _The Never-_ Sodding _-Ending Sacrifice_. “Let me guess. This is somehow ‘For Cardassia’.”

Garak laughed, bitter. “No, for once, Doctor, this is not for Cardassia at all.” He tilted his glass of kanar, lamplight fracturing and resetting through its murky depths. “This is entirely for Kelas.”

It had been deliberate, that name. An admission. He looked up and met Julian’s eyes.

They sat there, looking at each other far longer than should have been comfortable. Julian should have looked away; Garak should have quipped. But neither seemed able to fall back into that lightly contemptuous rhythm that had always driven them. Something shifted—a tempo change.

When he finally spoke, Garak’s voice was matter-of-fact but quiet. “Doubtless Parmak told you that he spent some time in a penal colony off-world. What he might have neglected to mention was that, as part of his shortened sentence—“

“Shortened sentence?! It was _three years_!”

“He was a third-degree accessory to conspiracy, Doctor. He should have died in that camp, if the law had its way.”

A piece dropped into place. “But he _didn’t_. Someone…intervened.”

Garak ignored this. “As a part of his shortened sentence, the good doctor is required to be debriefed by representatives from Central Command and the Obsidian Order at least once every three years.”

Since the day Julian had seen the painting on the wall of Garak’s parlor, he had wondered about Altak Anat—about why his jailer felt such camaraderie with that figure of loss. That Garak lionized the acceptance of pain for something greater was no surprise: that his own sacrifice might be made for _love_ —romantic love of the most ordinary sort—was something Julian would never have guessed.

“You’re afraid for him.”

“Parmak is a _noble_ man.” Garak said the word noble as if it were a particularly unpalatable swear. “And, like so many noble men, he can’t lie to save his life. And wouldn’t, I suspect. Damned men of principle.”

“Ahh, yes. We _romantics_.” _You’re not fooling anyone anymore, Mister Garak._ Romanticism was not a dish the inquisitor had left untasted.

“The truth is, Doctor, I owe that ‘romantic’ more than I can repay, and he likewise. But my superiors look at Parmak and see a traitor—rightly so, perhaps. And as for Central Command… there are more than a few who would be eager to use any paramour of mine as leverage. Or as a vehicle for revenge.” He swallowed, his words turned inward like the probing point of a knife. “Parmak deserves better than me.”

The silence stretched almost to breaking.

“Well, on that, at least, we can agree.”

Garak’s laughter cut through the staid air that had gathered about them, and Julian felt it land, warm. They weren’t arguing, they weren’t insulting, and yet, the same electricity hummed, for a moment, between them. It was something new.

“I….understand why, but…it’s got to be hard to do that. To him. To yourself.”

A wan smile over the lip of his glass. “ _’I’ll never be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand, as if a man were author of himself and knew no other kin_.’”

It was Julian’s turn to laugh. “Glad to see that _Coriolanus_ stayed with you, though, as I recall, his attempt to deny sentiment failed rather spectacularly.”

“Let’s hope mine doesn’t.”

Julian lifted his glass, and, grudging, Garak touched it to his with a high, clear ring.

It wasn’t until that moment, looking at the inquisitor over their joined glasses, that Julian noticed it.

At some point during the day, Garak had changed his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you know that episode of DS9 where O'Brien is made to feel like he's spent 20 years in prison? Well, that's how I feel right now except instead of making sand spirographs with my invisible friend, I've been rewriting this stupid chapter for 20 years...
> 
> And I'm still not thrilled with it, but I can no longer trust myself to be objective and don't want to lose my momentum. So we'll chalk it up to mid-point lull. Sorry about the wait, and I hope there's something fun/painful/in some way enjoyable in there for anyone not reading it for the 5,437th time. :)
> 
> The next chapter: a flashback to the interrogation of Kelas Parmak, and the boys celebrate Union Day among other things.  
> It should be available in no more than two weeks: maybe less if the rewrites aren't as gruesome as they were for this one. 
> 
> Thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who kudosed and commented. I will admit there were a few moments when I was re-breaking this chapter that people's timely comments gave me the ooomph I needed to try again.  
> If the spirit moves you, please continue to let me know what you think or feel or are wearing as you read. :DDD
> 
> And again, THANK YOU ALL!


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

 

_Cardassia City, eight years earlier_

 

The room was cold.

Outside, the last of the autumn rains had turned violent, and the chill seeped in, coating the instruments and the metal of his chair with extra bite. In the far corner, a small pool formed. The rhythmic tap of water from the ceiling answered the breath of the man across from him. _Drip…gasp. Drip…gasp. Drip…gasp._

He’d reviewed the dossier in the skimmer on the way there. Research was best done much further in advance, of course, but there hadn’t been time. He’d barely had a chance to grab his rainshade before Tain’s messengers scuttled him off through the downpour, a cup of red leaf tea still sitting on the counter, untouched and cooling.

It had been little more than three weeks since he’d returned from Ab-Tzenketh, and the ice still clogged his veins. Tea and rest, they’d prescribed, and he’d tried. Technically, he was still on leave, but they’d already called him in twice. Leave meant nothing to Tain.

So leave meant nothing to him.

This one was a doctor, at least. That was promising. The tea might not have to wait _too_ long.

He shivered and pulled his jacket closer, trying to cover a bit more of his neck as he read. Kelas Parmak, 30 years, graduated Dravar Science Academy, clinical fellowship at Lakarian General. Currently Consulting Physician at the Kallinan Treatment Facility, specializing in pain management. _How ironic._

That’s why they’d taken Garak away from his tea—why it had to be him. Through Kallinan this doctor must have any number of high-profile clients: legates, guls, Council members. None would fully trust a man who knew his weaknesses, who had seen his pain. What excuse had this fool given them?

_Association with undesirable persons._ Ahh, the catchall of Cardassian crime. Along with _suspicions of seditious sympathies._

Well then, time to give suspicions a hard and fast shape.

Though the man had a surprising lack of pressure points. No wife. No children. Not even any extended family to speak of. Mother and father were _karas’sa_ class, deceased. No known exploitable vices, except a tendency to enjoy a glass too many of _civit_ now and again. Not even a speeding violation. And quite an extensive record in the volunteer corps, too. Triage missions to a dozen Union worlds. A commendation granted for services on Dorvan II. And regular volunteer work at—

His eyes darted away from the name before his mind could give it voice. He knew better than to let the words in.

He put the padd down and locked it.

Like most buildings in Munda’ar, this one was aggressively plain. Windowless and vast, one might imagine it had been a storehouse of some kind in a prior life. As long as Garak could remember, however, this—this work they did—had been its purpose. Among those inclined to know such things, it was referred to as the Trench.

Garak hated working the Trench. It absorbed weather: too hot in summer, damp in autumn. In winter it was so intolerable exposure alone was often enough to break even the hardest detainees. Its high ceilings and walls of industrial plasticrete caused every word to echo and every instrument to clatter. Torture could be a noisy business: here it was deafening.  

_Extensive volunteer work at--_

He blinked. He couldn’t think it. _Lock it away--_

But his mind leaked, like the ceiling above. He couldn’t stop the words.

_Extensive volunteer work at Anath’or House, Lakarat Province._

And the walls he’d built around the memory collapsed with a thought.

It had been three days after Ab-Tzenketh, and he’d arrived still shaken and disconnected and existing on a cycle of pep pills and sleeping pills. The room was a box, cramped and ice cold and stinking like a sty. Five children with bones too sharp and eyes too hard for their years. The littlest one had sores, open and weeping, up his arm. He’d chewed on a rotten piece of candy.

They knew nothing, no one; they yielded no secrets because they had none to yield. The dissidents had used them as little more than beasts of burden.

He’d returned home after to down a bottle of kanar and a few more sleeping pills.

The military leveled it that night as he slept: the largest orphanage on Cardassia destroyed, its wards inside, all tucked in their beds. A lesson to them, those traitors using orphans to ferry their clandestine communiqués.

_The blood is on their hands,_ Lok had insisted. _They’re the ones who involved the children in the first place._

They’d prescribed more sleeping pills.

Some nights it was the walls on Tzenketh falling in, the muffled screech of klaxons from beneath the crush of stone. Some nights, it was the walls of Anath’or. Children screamed as the world crashed down on them and no one even bothered to notice.

Some nights the terrors mixed, and, on those nights, he didn’t bother with the pills. On those nights, he considered something stronger. More _permanent._

He pressed his eyes closed tight, until red sparks danced through the black of his vision. _Lock it away, out of sight, where such things belong…_

This doctor had been at Anath’or. A pediatrics volunteer. A connection. A suspicion. That was all they needed to bring him in.

And Garak knew. As soon as he removed the blindfold and met the other man’s eyes, he knew.

And the man knew that he knew.

They sat. The drip in the corner marked time.

How long they sat, he couldn’t be sure. For a while he simply watched the other man, tired mind tracing out the shape of the interrogation to come.

_Name and identification._

_Kelas Parmak, Cardassia City, Karas’sa class. Identcode 72215._

_Do you know why you’ve been detained, Doctor?_

_I haven’t a clue, Inquisitor. I was hoping you could tell me._

Then he would bring up Anath’or, slowly, detached, as if reading the story from a broadsheet. He would watch as the doctor’s skin paled, as his eyes flickered and his breath grew shallow.

But the doctor wouldn’t admit anything.

He would make threats. Knife sharp, veiled in courtesy, but clear. He would pick up an instrument. Move it in his fingers while he spoke. The man’s eyes would be caught, unable to look away.

But he would stay silent.

Then they’d begin in earnest. This man was the sort who could be eased in, little by little. He might start by removing a few scales along the neckridge. Searing pain, but not unbearable. Some screamed; others merely whimpered and hissed and blubbered that they knew nothing.

It wouldn’t be enough. But they would get closer. Each wound would get them closer.

Ancestors, it was cold. And he was tired. He would give anything for that cup of tea.

“You saw them, didn’t you? The children?”

The other man watched him with a sharpness that gave Garak the sudden upside-down impression that he was the detainee, strapped down and examined.

Silence answered for him.

“There was a little girl there… Umit. She had Taks’sun Syndrome, and I visited every month to give her injections. They’re painful, those injections, so I’d bring her a little brown bag with _ikri_ buns, too: one to eat right after and one to save. She said I reminded her of her father.”

The doctor’s voice was warm—a warmth uncomfortably welcome in the howling damp of the Trench. Garak wished he could draw closer to it, wrap his hands around it like that cup of tea. That he could think of anything else. Talk of anything else. Anything but those children, trapped beneath the walls. _Umit. And her ikri buns._

“I knew,” he said simply.

A confession. So easy. It’s what he’d wanted.

Wasn’t it?

A cold eddy of fear had shot through those words as he’d said them, and for a moment, Garak thought he might recant. But though his voice wavered, shivering like a plucked string, his eyes remained fixed, unyielding. “I—I didn’t know exactly what they were doing, but I knew they were doing something. Umit told me.” A smile like a wound. “She was mad because they said she was too small to help. They were handing out _ghevet_ candy as payment, you see.”

It sunk its teeth into his memory. The sour smell of _ghevet_ , the rustle of wrappers in grimy pockets.

 “Candy, Inquisitor. That’s what cost those children their lives.”

Just at the edge of his awareness, Garak felt the precipice—the roaring red of panic. The room was shrinking, shrinking. His memories jumbled. He yearned to lift his eyes to the expanse of ceiling above, trying with all his might to feel the open space. But, though his heart hammered and the walls of his mind crushed inward, he couldn’t look away. This man held the eyes.

 “I wasn’t sure what was in the messages, but I could see why they used them. No one notices those children, Inquisitor. They scuttle through lower Torr like feral _lemmik_ , scrounging for scraps in dumpsters, taking whatever they can. The orphanages have kitchens, but you should see those kitchens gleam, Inquisitor. Never any food to dirty them up.”

The grip on his lungs tightened, the walls close. The face of the youngest one, a boy with gray-blue eyes, closed in just the same. A face more bestial than Cardassian.

“It was Councilor Grisat. He communicated regularly with Gul Veltsa of the Third and Gul Ikran of the Tenth. And…Muna Taket from U of U.”

Even shaky and near panic, Garak catalogued the names. Grisat had been under suspicion for years. Veltsa too. Their arrests would be a victory. But Professor Taket...a literature dean, seemingly uninvolved in politics. Garak had read several of her articles on the serialist poets. Quite brilliant.

“They cared as little for those children as the military did when they brought down the walls. They deserve what punishment may come. As, I suppose, do I.”

Garak had sat across from many people over the years: they’d all found themselves at this moment, where the breathy desperation of confession stuttered into defeat. This was the first time, however, that he’d wanted to reach out and offer comfort.

And somehow the man across from him sensed it. His face softened, and though he frowned, tender lines creased the corners of his eyes. “I’m tired of violence, Inquisitor. I thought I’d save you from it tonight.”

Garak had never been more grateful to anyone for anything in his entire life.

 

**********************

For what seemed the hundredth time that morning, a shrill whine split the air. Inwardly, Garak cringed, though he’d long ago learned to stopper himself, stilling the body even when the mind rebelled. This time the rising tail of the _kili_ was a sulfurous green that set against the sky with an ear-splitting crack. From somewhere just beyond the fence several children screamed in delight, chanting out of time but with fervor. _Elama vo’it, elama vo’it! Cardassia-Sul, elama vo’it!_

Knees aching more than he cared to admit, he crawled further down the bed of _punatur_ , chanting the words to himself as he pulled orange vegetables from the soil.

Another whistle and flash of purple. _So much for a peaceful afternoon in the garden._

But he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything other than contentment as he listened to the children celebrate between bursts. Perhaps he could get his hands on some _kili_ for the celebration tonight. Yesi and Bakit would enjoy it. The gold ones, maybe, like Tolan used to buy. They made a terrible racket, but they sparkled at night bright enough to rival the Taluvian constellation. He remembered, in a flash as sudden as the _kili_ overhead, sitting wrapped in the soft of Mila’s lap as gold dusted across the sky. Ear pressed close to her chest, he’d heard the muffled sound of her singing in time to the steady rhythm of her heart. His earliest memory of Union Day, from a time when he was still too young for Tain to care.

Those did tend to be the best memories.

 The _kurup_ from behind him cut across the pleasantness.

He sighed, setting several _punatur_ into his basket and turning to see the _lemmik_ skulking behind a fruit tree. It crouched, long ears at attention, clearly disturbed by the thundering _kili_ overhead. When several exploded in unison, it _kuruped_ again and pressed itself into Garak’s lap.

“ _Bakek kor,_ ” he grumbled, pushing it off again. “Parmak was right. You’re going to plague me.” _Lemmik_ in general were mangy, timid creatures: this one, though, had an impudence and a persistence Garak had to admit he found a little endearing. He reached over to the basket and dug out one of the smaller vegetables. Every creature deserved to celebrate today, he supposed. “ _Elama vo’it_ , you stupid beast.”

After it had scraped clean the orange flesh with teeth, the _lemmik_ turned in a circle and curled up on the grass beside him, staring up with adoring yellow eyes.

It wasn’t the only creature watching him.

From the window, framed by the bursting bright reflections of _kili_ along the pane, he could see the outline of the human’s face, eyes as intent as the _lemmik_ ’s. He was cupping a glass of something and staring up at the sky with open curiosity.

_Every creature, indeed._

Garak opened the door. “ _Elama vo’it_ , Doctor Bashir,” he said with a bow. “Please, join me. The _kili_ can be bothersome, I know, but they have their own sort of beauty.”

 Bashir lingered on the doorstep.

_Ahh, yes. The explosives._ “Not to worry, Doctor. I made an allowance for the garden.”

Moving as if not entirely convinced, Bashir took several awkward steps into the garden, pausing and cringing with each _kili_ that burst overhead. “I take it this is some kind of celebration..? You might have warned me. I thought the city was under attack or something.”

“Forgive me, Doctor. I confess I’d forgotten. Today is Union Day, a day—”

But the doctor wasn’t listening. The _lemmik_ had crept to his feet and was sniffing its way up his leg, tongue lolling and teeth exposed. The more the doctor attempted to push it away, the more adamantly it advanced, until its snout was buried between the man’s thighs, snuffling loudly.

“Lovely,” he snapped as he wiped at the trail of slobber along the inside of his pant leg.

One _tssk_ from Garak and the creature retreated back to the underbrush.

_My my, Doctor. Aren’t we out of sorts today?_ The small crease between the man’s eyebrows looked permanently pressed there, and his lips drooped in an uncharacteristic grimace. Though he sipped at his drink and looked up at the _kili_ , his attention was clearly elsewhere.

Garak turned back to his work.  “Rokassa juice?”

“Loral has taken to bringing me a glass every afternoon about this time. To ‘soothe my nerves’ she says. When she didn’t bring one today, I found I actually missed it.”

“And your nerves need soothing, I see.”

“I’ve tried every trick in my rather extensive book, and I’m still no closer to an antiviral. And without Parmak here…” He trailed off. Parmak hadn’t been back since the vaccine trials had begun. He’d sent regrets to Bashir, saying he was too involved with logistics at the Bureau, but both Garak and Bashir knew that wasn’t all.

Bashir was clearly feeling the liaison’s absence, and not just in the lab, Garak suspected. Parmak had that way with people. Soothing and steadying as rokassa juice and, like the juice, missed when it wasn’t there.

_And not just by the Doctor_ , his mind accused. He pulled a _punatur_ from the ground with a bit too much force, trying to pluck out the thought just the same.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned—“

“It’s quite alright, Doctor. I know he was of great use to you in your work.” _And that’s all I plan to say on_ that _topic._

He still wasn’t precisely sure what had happened that evening they had discussed Kelas over fishpaste and kanar. He’d intended, when the time came, to weave a pretty tale about his and Parmak’s sordid and ill-fated affair: the sort of tale engineered to appeal to a man like Bashir. He’d had some rather good details prepped, too. Parmak had tended to him after an Order operation on…say, Ventani II. A darkening sky. An exchange of glances.  When Parmak had checked on him the next day, he’d brought a dozen Vidalian peonies, all white, and they’d discussed Kavit’s _Odes to a Red Sun_.

That was the sort of pap human romances were built on, Garak seemed to recall.

Instead what had emerged, under the remorse-soaked press of kanar and soft human eyes, had been the truth…mostly. And, to his surprise, the mostly-truth had been a better gambit than his pretty tale. If there was one thing both he and the doctor seemed able to lean close and agree on it was that someone needed to protect Kelas Parmak.

Of course it wasn’t the _whole_ truth. He’d blamed Central Command and the Order, but what he’d really meant was that Tain would never allow it. Tain would never allow him to become truly involved with _anyone_. Perhaps, someday, he would be married, but it wouldn’t be for love. In fact, Tain would probably prefer that whatever woman was chosen—and it would be a woman, he knew—was not at all to Garak’s taste. She would be vapid, obedient, _pliant_. This would ensure that while their line continued, when it came to it, Garak’s loyalty would always lay with the Order first. And with Tain.

Tain knew about Parmak, certainly. He knew the two men were…close. But so long as Garak took it no further and displayed no signs of affection or attachment for prying eyes to see, Tain could dismiss it as a slaking of lusts—a dalliance and nothing more. That’s all Parmak could ever be.

And, of course, Garak had left out the _other_ truths. All the truths that he and Parmak kept guarded, unspoken but vital, between them.

Such as how, hearing Parmak remark on his eyes, Garak had convinced Tain he’d broken the man with his gaze alone and that there was no way a man that soft could be doing any real work for the dissidents. Tain had been so… _amused._  The sentence was commuted from execution to imprisonment.

Or how he’d kept tabs on Parmak’s incarceration and ensured that he was never transferred to a less hospitable facility. As labor camps went, those on Avenall were the least objectionable, he’d heard, and Parmak spent at least a year of his service as a paramedic rather than working the _val_ fields like most prisoners.

How he’d arranged the job at Lakar General so something would be available for Parmak upon his return. Most places weren’t anxious to hire someone marked by the Order, but it hadn’t taken Parmak long to prove himself a reliable servant to Cardassia. Garak had simply given him the opportunity.

Yes, someone needed to protect Kelas Parmak, and that someone had been him. And would continue to be, he supposed, as long as he was able.

After all, Parmak was the only person in Garak’s life who had shown him true and absolute _kindness_.  Unsought after and _certainly_ unearned.

And, after Anath’or—after Ab-Tzenketh—that had been the difference between life and…

He turned back and focused all his effort on the vegetables, intent not to tumble down that dark path any further.

“I finished _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ , you know.”

A _kili_ flashed above them, casting, for a moment, a veil of blue across the garden. “Did you? I suppose I should commend your determination if not your pace.”

 “The ending was _awful_.”

 Garak couldn’t suppress the smile, hands in the dirt. _Yes, Doctor. That’s more like it._ “It’s a feature of the repetitive epic to begin and end with the same scenes, the same lines. An elegant symmetry that Corac perfected.”

“I don’t mean the lines, Garak; I mean the story! Eight hundred-odd pages devoted to following the Anat family through seven generations and then, in the end, they’re wiped out! Just like that!” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “All that sacrifice for _nothing_!”

“For _nothing_ , Doctor? _Nothing?_ ” He couldn’t help but sit back and turn the weight of his dismay on Bashir. He’d known the gulf between Cardassian and human cultures was vast, but this interpretation made it seem, suddenly, more like a black hole that would never allow enlightenment across its horizon.

 It took him several attempts before he could even shape the words. “I find myself at a loss. If you can’t understand Maran’s final sacrifice …perhaps we should discontinue these conversations altogether, Doctor.”

The anger Garak expected to see in Bashir’s face was absent. Instead the doctor stilled utterly, studying him with intensity. He’d seen the same look in the interrogation chamber—the pointed gaze of a man trying to puzzle out his thoughts. Trying to guess the truth. Somehow, coming from Bashir, he found it almost…alluring. A tease.

Then, a smile, dawning bright as the bursting red _kili_ overhead. His sigh was theatrical. “If that’s the way you feel, Garak, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps mutual understanding is a hopeless case.”

Smugness danced in those brown eyes. _What is it you think you’ve figured out, Doctor?_

He pressed, wary. “Surely even a man of your intellect can understand that by sacrificing his ship, Maran won the Battle of Rokat and saved the entire Union. All those sacrifices, seven generations worth, to arrive at that moment. ‘ _For in his birth we multitudes are born; for by his death we multitudes do thrive_.’”

The doctor shook his head. “And yet, there are no Anats to celebrate Union Day today, eh? Give everything to the State: your heart, your children, yourself? Until there’s nothing left of any of them?”

“ _Elama vo’it_ , _Cardassia-Sul_. ’May Cardassia grow ever stronger,’ Doctor. That is the ending of every Cardassian’s story.”

“The same as it began, eh?”

“Even you can appreciate the elegance, I believe.”

“Even _me_.” He smiled now over the lip of his cup—a smile dripping with the same impudence Garak admired in the _lemmik_.  “Leaving aside the cold-blooded sentiment of it, I admit, I see the efficiency of the Cardassian way.”

He said this like a man dropping a lure in a lake.

_Oh, Doctor. You’ll have to hide the snare better than that._ “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

“No, it’s a locked-down system. Every man, woman, and child following in line. You have the military to enforce your will outside your borders and the Obsidian Order to enforce your will within them.”

“Oh, I assure you the Order is quite good at enforcing Cardassian will _everywhere_.”

 “No doubt.”

A _kili_ overhead filled the human’s eyes, for a moment, with silver. _Beautiful_.  

“But I do see one tiny though significant weakness.”

“And what would that be, Doctor?”

“Well, not all enemies attack like the Klingons, full-frontal assault, _bat’leths_ raised.”

“Some come under cloak, you mean.”

 “In a manner of speaking.” Bashir, who had been stretched out, all long limbed, sat up as if gathering all his wits about him. “Imagine…I’m a Romulan consul.”

“Oh you’d need a much worse haircut for that, Doctor.”

He smirked. “Perhaps you can recommend whomever you use.”

Garak laughed despite himself. The human could be so delightfully scathing when he tried.

“Or just _use_ _your imagination_. I’m a Romulan consul, and I manage somehow—through blackmail or bribery or some other nefarious means—to corrupt the highest-ranking Legate at Central Command. With him in my hand, I have the entirety of Cardassia at my beck and call. Slowly and methodically, I can reshape the Union however I see fit, and no one would _dare_ to question their leaders. If any were foolish enough to do so, well, they’d meet up with a man like _you_.” Garak felt the doctor’s look like the accusatory stab of a finger. “Once you train people to obey unquestioningly, they become a tool available to anyone who would reach out and grab it. And before you know it…” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “You’re eating viinerine and wearing nothing but _gray_.”

Garak sat back on his hands and looked up at a sky momentarily empty. It certainly wasn’t the first time the thought had been articulated, though it was certainly the first time anyone had the temerity to do so to _him_. The dissidents called it the _paradox of patriotism_ , as he recalled. He’d read it in several of their tracts and broadsheets.

They’d gotten worse than the glare he gave the doctor. “Well, if anyone suggests shoulder pads in the uniforms, I’ll be on my guard.”

“You don’t …disagree?” the doctor said with an air of mock disbelief.

Something…something was happening. The doctor was playing some sort of game with him, but he couldn’t imagine what. “If you mean that a certain amount of dissent can be necessary to any society—even _beneficial_ —then I understand the logic. We’ve not been immune to dissent.”

“And?”

“Every so often, dissenters have…valid points.” He swallowed, the words feeling…uncomfortable…in his mouth. “And, if dissenters are _truly_ worthy of making their views heard, they will do so. If not…”

Bashir scoffed. “Are you saying the value of a dissident movement lies in its ability to successfully outmaneuver the State?”

“Well, you’d hardly want to put people in charge who _couldn’t_ outmaneuver the State, would you?”

“Oh, no, they would be too _soft_ , too idealistic, eh? Survival of the fittest, is it?”

“Starry eyes can be quite lovely.” He inclined his head to Bashir in a way he knew was both admiring and condescending. “But leadership requires clearer vision, my young friend. The State does not run on beauty and hope. And that is why it wins _every time_.”

Bashir spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Mister Garak…perhaps you’re right. I don’t know that we’ll ever see eye to _starry_ eye.” He shook his head, and while his expression was one of exasperation, his lips pursed in amusement.

Sensing the doctor was about to continue this game—whatever it might be—he stood. Bashir followed suit.

“Now, if you’ll forgive me, Doctor. I need to get these _punatur_ washed for Loral. She’ll be making cakes for this evening, and she can be rather severe when her kitchen and ingredients are not precisely—“

Before Garak realized what was happening, Bashir had stepped close. Human fingers grazed his jaw, the sharpest moment of heat across scales, a short trail of smooth skin.

A reflex, he snatched the doctor’s hand in his: it was only with great effort that he didn’t break it.

It took even greater effort not to hiss with pleasure.

“Sor—sorry. You had some…dirt. Just there.”

This close heat radiated, the musk of sweat near edible. Hand still clutched in his, the delicate tattoo of the doctor’s pulse teased his palm. Human lips were pink and soft, and suddenly—very suddenly—Garak was all too aware of them. Was the doctor… _is this_ …

The truth of it slammed into him at once.

_Elim Garak, you are being played for a fool_.

He stepped back.

He had to admit, for a human, Bashir was pulling off _borroka_ with disturbing skill. The debate, the smugness, the submission, the touch, all strangely subtle for a man whom he’d written off as all blunt inexperience. And for a moment—for the space of one or two shaky, too-hot breaths—it had worked. Garak was more than aware of the rapid beating of his heart, the slight swell of the scales down his neck, the sudden, gibbering stab of lust. For just a moment, he had forgotten.

Bashir was playing a game alright. To what end, he would have to wait and see. He could only imagine it would culminate in some unpleasantness. An escape attempt perhaps.

He heard Parmak’s disapproving sniff in his mind. _Be careful with him. He fits…your pattern._

Though it rankled to admit, Parmak, as usual, was right. This was his fault: he’d encouraged it. It hadn’t been _borroka_ , exactly, but Garak had indulged himself, allowed himself to take a small taste of the human—to bask in the glow of youth and intelligence and dune-brown eyes.

He had a weakness for bright and beautiful things, and the human had learned to exploit it.

But this— _borroka_ —they were playing _his_ game. This would put him firmly in control.

And the human would find him an apt player.

All slowness, he set his hands down, soft but certain, on Bashir’s shoulders. Feeling the warm density of muscle beneath his touch, he allowed the wave of arousal to wash over him fully. The man was beautiful, that was a certainty. This game—playing along with whatever the doctor had in mind—was going to be quite…diverting.

“Come, Doctor. Help me prepare for our guests.”

The sudden burst of the _kili—_ three in succession—caused Bashir to startle slightly beneath his hands.  _Like a lemmik_ , Garak noted again with a grin.

As he stepped inside, all too aware of the human’s heat, he wondered absently if he could make the doctor _prrrrek_ just as easily.

 

******************

 

Garak couldn’t recall a Union Day he’d enjoyed more.

Yesi and Bakit had been utterly baffled to discover that Bashir knew nothing of the holiday. _You’ve never lit kili, s’sava? You’ve never had cake-and-ghevet? You’ve never heard the Akleen Address?_

Each _no_ had elicited a frenzy of excitement. Yesi had insisted they buy one of every _kili_ the stand had on offer, and Bakit had recited the Address with a passion Garak wouldn’t have guessed the stoic child possessed. He doubted even Akleen himself had delivered the words with such fervor. Listening with a glass of _civit_ in hand, he felt a swell of paternal pride. Followed of course by the requisite reminder that this was not his child, and that he, in fact, had no right to such feelings.

The _cake-and-ghevet_ had been sublime, but he’d suspected it would be. Loral prided herself on the recipe, passed down through seven generations of Lorals. It was the most valuable thing they’d left her, she claimed. _And when you’re sixteen, child_ , she said to Yesi, per tradition, _it’ll be yours, too._

What she didn’t mention was that she had secretly written it down and entrusted it to Garak so that, in the event no Starfleet doctor was around to save her next time, Yesi would get her inheritance either way.

So when Bashir had moaned in satisfaction and begged for another helping, Garak had known the old woman was his. Whatever bitterness Loral still nursed toward the human evaporated the moment the man’s fork scraped the last crumbs from his plate. She clucked something about putting some weight on him. _You look like a half-starved_ minav, _Baa’chir. Let me get you another._

_Does the human know what he’s doing? Is it all an act?_ He’d managed _borroka_ with such acumen that Garak found himself reassessing everything, turning over each thing the human said in search of intent. Of calculation.  

Parmak was watching too, Garak noticed.

Ever insistent on meddling, Loral had invited Parmak weeks ago, but Garak had been sure he wouldn’t follow through after the events of the prior week.

Parmak had surprised them both by showing up on the doorstep with a dragon’s tongue _kili_ that made Yesi squeal with delight.

Garak would have given all the _lek_ in Gan Treasury to know what Kelas saw when he watched the doctor—how much he had figured out. But Parmak wasn’t speaking to him. Nothing obvious about it, or rude, but the line had been drawn. Each word was cool. And minimal. And spoken from across the room.

_That’s what you wanted, Elim. Remember?_

“Are you going to finish that?” Bashir asked with that damned smile, leaning towards him and gesturing loosely to the half _cake-and-ghevet_ that remained on his plate.

“Be my guest, Doctor. I know better than to stand in the way of your _rapacious_ appetite.”

“Well, you needn’t worry about looking half-starved, now do you, _s’sava_?” He wrapped his smirking lips around a forkful of orange cake.  

Beneath the table—ever so gently—the doctor’s knee brushed against his.

To his dismay, the almost-growl returned to the depths of his chest, all unbidden.

Yes, the human _was_ good at this.

“Baa’chir, _s’sava_?”

The doctor turned to Bakit, who was looking up at him with earnest appeal.

“Do you know how to play kotra?”

They all retired to the parlor where Bakit introduced the human to the basics of the game. Garak admired how the doctor listened, how he allowed Bakit to guide him without any pretense or childish indulgence.

And how he did not pretend to lose. The first game through, Bashir won with little resistance, taking Bakit’s Capitol within twenty turns.

The boy looked confused, staring at the arrayed pieces as if they had somehow arrived at that position on their own.

“You left your Legate in place too long,” Bashir explained, indicating the line from his Border to the edge of Bakit’s Capitol. “As soon as my Warships were in play, the Legate was your only line of defense here.”

Bashir, however, had misinterpreted the boy’s confusion. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand his fault: it was that he didn’t understand Bashir.

Garak cleared his throat. “An important lesson, Bakit. Despite what your schoolmasters may say, humans are every bit as bright as we are. And, in fact, they can be quite… _devious_ when need be.” His eyes met the doctor’s with a delicious frisson of challenge. “It’s never wise to underestimate your opponent.”

There were few things more beautiful than the small brush of pink that rose along the human’s cheeks when they held eyes too long.

“I want to play!” Yesi had leapt up from her seat where, just moments before, it looked as if she might be dosing. “I want to play! I never get to play.”

Bakit made a spitting noise, clearly still smarting from the loss. “Kotra’s a military game: it’s not for you.”

“I’ll bet I could beat _you_ ,” she averred with the jab of a finger. “I could be in the military one day. Like Gul Ocett.”

“Don’t be stupid, Yesi. We’re service class. I’m not going to be a gul, and neither are you.” Bakit took the tone of every wise ten year old talking to his baby sister.

 “Garak _S’sava_ was service class, and _he’s_ even more powerful than a gul now.”

Loral’s _tsk_ put an end to the argument. The girl sunk back into her seat and a magnificent pout.

Yesi had more fire in her than her brother and grandmother combined, and Garak had often thought she might be well-suited for service in the Order. She could be artfully manipulative when necessary, and she had a way of not-being in a space that meant she often surprised all but him with her presence. On top of that, her memory was _formidable_. He sometimes found himself playing the same games of memory Tain had played with him as a boy. She might as well have been a holorecorder. _Tain would have her in an instant._

Garak had even gone so far as to draft a letter of recommendation to Bamarren one evening before leaving on a particularly difficult operation. In case he died, he thought, he wanted to be sure her future was secured—at least as far as he could.

He’d turned back and deleted it five minutes after leaving.

Whatever he might think, he couldn’t do that to her—molding her into the shape he saw. The shape of him. He knew the bars of that song all too well.

Tain would have her in an instant. But perhaps he should let _her_ pick that instant.

The sound of Parmak crossing the room snapped him from his thoughts. “Yesi, dear, don’t blame them for being afraid of you.” He set a soft hand atop her head. “If you’d care to advise me in my challenge of the good Doctor Bashir here…? I think I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Parmak lifted the girl up on his lap to give her a full view of the board. She pushed aside her braid and studied the pieces with a gravity that made her look, suddenly, years older.

Parmak gave the Doctor much more of a challenge. While Bakit had reacted to each move the Doctor made, Parmak  worked toward his own end, allowing Bashir to take the advantage in some areas while he advanced his own agenda elsewhere. But it wasn’t long before Bashir realized this and pulled back, arraying his Warships and Guls at the Border and allowing his Fighters to move forward only when necessary.

Neither seemed willing to sacrifice security to gain an advantage. Parmak pulled back as well.

Giggling intermittently, Yesi whispered in Parmak’s ear, and he nodded, whispering back.

And Garak’s mind could no longer avoid the thought.

This was what he’d wanted, this that surrounded him now. A good meal, the laughter of children, _civit_ and companionship—a beautiful tableau set out before him. It felt like a mirage, so much joy in this small corner of his life.

_How banal, s’olat_.

Tain’s voice mocked, as usual, from the midst of contentment. _I raised you to be more than this. But your mother’s blood... For all of her charms, she always suffered the same mawkish affliction._

The _civit_ turned sour on his tongue.

_We always come back to it, don’t we, s’olat? Always_ sentiment.

The mirage all but vanished.

“You disapprove, Mister Garak?”

Bashir was watching him, honeyed eyes too damned sharp.

The smile he’d fixed on the doctor, he was suddenly aware, might have been too fond. “Oh, far be it from me to advise two titans of strategy in such matters. Watching the two of you play is as entertaining as watching two old women fight over a melon in the market.”

“I take offense at that,” Loral sighed from her perch across the room. “I fight with more _kajok_ than these two.”

“Well it’s not as if I’ve much choice. They’re playing tight, and if I fall for it, I run the risk of overextending myself.”

Yesi’s voice was matter of fact, the tip of her braid half in her mouth as she pointed to the board. “You have to _sacrifice_ , _s’sava._ ”

Bashir gave Garak a questioning look that said _Is that something_ you _taught her?_

Garak merely smiled, feeling that familiar swell of faux-paternal pride again.

“Dangle a prize in front of him _._ Your Legate maybe—and then, once he’s well in your Border, you reposition your Hounds in the line. Like the Klingons at Betreken Nebula.”

“Traitor!” Parmak gasped, giving Yesi a genial poke in the side. “Aiding the enemy!”

She giggled wildly.

Bashir, however, was no longer watching the game. The crease between his eyebrows had returned and his mind was clearly strategizing on something entirely different.

“Doctor Bashir?”

“Let it into the Border. That’s—something I hadn’t—“

The light in Bashir’s eyes caught in Parmak’s. “You’re thinking of _heriot’za_.”

Bashir was already halfway to the basement door, all else forgotten. “Parmak, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

And just like that the two doctors were gone.

Loral stirred, stroking Bakit’s hair as he slept, curled against her side. “What was that about?”

Garak shrugged. “You know how these doctors are. Everything’s life and death.”

But he knew precisely what had lit the faces of the two doctors. They had finally found what they’d been searching for these last weeks: a cure. In a few hours they would have it, their solution, and the Medical Bureau would be arranging a second set of ‘casts for the Cardassian people. A triumph.

But his own small thoughts sapped away what might have felt like victory.

_And what then?_

Bashir would be gone, one way or another, their diverting game cut short.

And Parmak—well he’d seen to that as well.

It _was_ a mirage. A moment of peace playing across the sky like _kili_ , lovely but brief.

_That’s the trouble with sentiment, lis’sea._ It was Mila now, harsh and scolding, but with the softness that always hid in a mother’s voice. _Such things are fleeting. But Cardassia—Cardassia is our forever._

He allowed himself a glance up at Altak Anat, gazing, flat-faced into the distance.

_For Cardassia, then._ As always, it came back to Cardassia. _The same as it began._

“Of course, you run the risk of him blocking your Hounds with the Warship here...” Yesi remained at the kotra board, staring intently.

With a smile, Garak stood and stretched his _civit-_ soaked muscles.

But there was no reason not to enjoy the mirage tonight. Every creature deserved to celebrate today.

Bashir’s seat was still warm, and he allowed his palm to press against its heat with a sigh.  It, coupled with Yesi’s wide grin, rekindled the contentment in his chest, and he let sentiment burn there, bright and happy and _enough_.

Just for tonight.

Tomorrow could be for Cardassia.

“Well, my dear, shall we finish the game…?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, the Thanksgiving holidays resulted in more of a delay than I expected, so again, I apologize. 
> 
> In the interim, I somehow got lucky enough to have the delightful Lilith offer to beta for me: they have been invaluable in helping to whip me and this chapter into shape! If not for them, this chapter would probably have been delayed by at least another week while I dithered over it, perspective-less. Blessed are the betas!
> 
> Chapter 8 is a bit of a monster (a lovely, enjoyable monster, but still), and while I've been reworking it already, I feel like this one might take awhile to tune to the perfect pitch. However, I think I can promise that it will be posted sometime around Christmas and _certainly_ before we hit 2018. And hopefully will be worth the wait by that point :) 
> 
> As always, I offer the most heartfelt and effusive THANKS to everyone who has commented, kudosed, and read along. Please keep it up as you feel moved to: your words, thoughts, feedback, and emoticons give me life. Also, since I guess this is a thing I do now, I have a [ tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8). If you that appeals to you, please do come say hi.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

Julian had never been fond of waiting.

His favorite parts of medicine were in the action. The crush of emergency surgery or the call and response of triage. Even the slow build of delivery had its tiny milestones and thrills.

But research was all about _waiting_.

He’d checked the specifications and monitored the cycles of the model as many times as he could. He’d been through each algorithm again and again, trying to ensure they’d left nothing to chance. Made no errors.

He glanced over at the screen. The current simulation had five hours remaining. Five whole hours.

On the station, he might have taken a stroll along the Promenade or found Miles for a game of darts or racquetball. Sometimes he’d invite a nurse or two to the Replimat and listen to the latest gossip. There was action all around him; he could always find its center.

Here he could do little more than sit. And wait. And watch.

Still five hours to go.

Parmak had gone home, promising to return in the morning for the results. Julian tried to talk him into another game of kotra or glass of _civit_ , but Parmak demurred. _I’m sorry to leave you, Bashir, my friend, but…_

Of course, Julian understood. He’d watched the cool, careful distance the two Cardassians had marked off between them. Garak had pushed Parmak away, and, it seemed, Parmak was trying to stay that way. Garak had remained cheerfully detached all night—too much so.

Parmak didn’t hide it well either.

So Julian settled down alone at the table for yet another helping of _cake-and-ghevet_. And a good, long _wait._

He wasn’t normally one for sweets, but Loral hadn’t exaggerated in calling her _cake-and-ghevet_ a family treasure. Light and fluffy, like a much-improved carrot cake with chips of _ghevet_ sprinkled through, all spice and butterscotch. Loral had insisted he’d never taste its like again, and he enjoyed each bite with that in mind. Consoled himself with the idea, in fact. Perhaps, soon, he would never taste _cake-and-ghevet_ again.

God, he hoped. If the simulations proved promising…

In his mind’s eye, Garak shook his head, smiling. _Naïve as ever, my dear doctor…_

If they proved promising…then what? Did he honestly expect they’d put him on a shuttle home?

He tried _not_ to think of it. He tried to concentrate on the cake and the simulation running downstairs and the paper he might be able to write after this whole affair was over. _Resurrecting double-stranded RNA oligiomizers for neuraminidase inhibitor-resistant influenza_. Or something like that. It would make a fantastic conference presentation—the drama of frontier medicine framed by his detainment on Cardassia. The inquisitor standing over his shoulder; the kindly Cardassian doctor determined not to let anything stand in their way. Helluva yarn, that.

_Those eggs haven’t hatched, Julian_. _Stop counting them._

All he could do was wait.

God, he would have even been grateful for _The_ thrice-damned _Never-ending Sacrifice_ now. Any distraction. Because the longer he sat, the more inescapable it became. The colder he grew, until the single thought was chiseled in ice-cold certainty.

He could never go home.

And then he would think of that home without him. Maudlin thoughts, he knew, but they came just the same. Jadzia buying rounds at Quark’s and accidentally ordering his drink—glass left at the bar. Miles at the dartboard with one of those junior engineers—someone who might have cared about whatever flow regulation decoupler he’d used that morning. His nurses leaning in to spread the latest gossip with a new CMO. Hell, he’d just gotten all the partners and children and hometowns straight.

Kukalaka, sitting alone on the nightstand. Would they send the bear home to his parents? Or would they be in prison already?

He could never go back.

Because even if he did get back to Federation space—even if somehow the Cardassians released him—there was no going back to the life he’d known. Not now that--

“Doctor?”

He startled, caught completely off guard.                                                                                                                                              

“Forgive me. You were far away, I see.”

“Very.” Far away and yet stuck. _Stuck right here with you._ “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all. The Lorals are in my bed for the evening. I was about to take up vigil in the parlor for you and Doctor Parmak.” He held up his book and drink to illustrate.

“Parmak’s left.”

Garak did little more than blink, but Julian felt sure he could sense it underneath. The recognition. The acceptance.  _The damned bloody_ sacrifice.

They sat in silence for a moment. Garak watched him; he watched his fork.

“Is something wrong, Doctor? Based on the whirl of excitement that took you from the room, I expected to find you in higher spirits.”

“Oh, I might be when these simulations are finished. But for the next—“ He glanced down at the time on his padd. “Five hours, six minutes, and thirty-two seconds, I expect I’ll be a bit of a wreck.”

 “Hence the moonlight snack.”

“Mmmm,” he replied through a mouthful. “I’m not usually a stress eater, but...”

“Stress? A tad melodramatic, isn’t it? Surely, you and Parmak can make some use of whatever results you receive.”

“Melodramatic? Mister Garak, if this doesn’t work, I believe I might be out of ideas altogether. And, with the vaccine trials concluded, I doubt your government will have much more patience with me, wouldn’t you agree?” His fork squeaked against his plate with force. “So what I’m actually waiting to find out is whether or not I’ll be returning to a Cardassian prison to rot. Or worse. So yes…” He took a big bite. “ _Stress_.”

 “I see. Well, then, something to take your mind off your predicament? A book, perhaps?”

“After _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ —“

“Something more accessible for a time like this, I think. Are you familiar with enigma tales?” Garak didn’t actually expect an answer, Julian had finally learned. He simply preferred to begin any didactic enterprise by highlighting Julian’s ignorance. “They’re something akin, from what I’ve been told, to human mystery novels, and they’re quite a popular genre here.”

“I do like a good mystery now and again.”

“I suspected as much. I’m currently reading a new release by Korit Mar— _The Praetor’s Dilemma_.” He indicated the red and green-covered novel he’d had with him the last several weeks. “Mar is the finest author in the genre, but not, perhaps, the one to begin with, especially for someone—“

Julian was sure he ought to be listening and preparing some sort of clever retort, but it just wasn’t in him tonight. He was too wound up inside himself, and just now his thoughts had wound their way back to the garden, with the _kili_ and the rokassa juice and the weird little animal staring behind the trees. The entire experience had been…eye opening. For the first time, as he’d sneered at the so-welcome ending of _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ , he had realized: he wasn’t afraid. Amused, yes. Nervous, absolutely. But it wasn’t the nervousness he’d felt when the inquisitor’s hand rested on the CPP. This was just…nerves. As if performing in front of an audience for the first time.

He didn’t recoil from Garak anymore: if anything it had become the absurd opposite. While that was surely a mistake, nevertheless, after that afternoon in the garden, he couldn’t deny it. Some part of him—whether it was survival instinct or Stockholm Syndrome or some genuine sort of esteem—had come to enjoy this…whatever it was.

He wasn’t at ease: no, far from it. But, if he was entirely honest with himself, when had he ever valued being at ease? Being at ease felt too damned much like _waiting_.

Which led to the next logical question: would Garak send him back to Kaltak? Would he throw him back into the cell as easily as he’d plucked him from it? Or was there a chance...

How much of it—the _borroka_ he was sure he’d participated in that afternoon—was real? And how much was feigned? A ploy to put a prisoner at ease.

_Yes, Julian. How much_ was _feigned?_

His body brought the sensations back, each accompanied by the dizzy clutch of something in his gut. Strong hands on his shoulders. That shivering hiss. Hard-cut eyes tracing his face.

Brushing Garak’s cheek had been a test—the next step in the blueprint of _borroka_. But when he had stepped into the tight circle of Garak’s space and felt the full force of the other man’s attention turned on him—no, there was no escaping it…the full force of his _lust_ —it had been…

“Well, I can see that enigma tales aren’t going to hold your interest, either.”

He blinked frantically, afraid for a moment, that the other man had sensed his thoughts. “Oh—I—I’m sorry, Garak.”

“Am I boring you, Doctor?”

“No—but—my mind is all over the place, I’m afraid.” _Indeed it’s going places it has no business going at all_. “Usually when I’m this preoccupied, I prefer to… _move_. Go for a run, play a game of racquetball. Force myself out of _this_.” He tapped his forehead.

He’d taken up racquetball in just such a situation, in fact. Nervous, awaiting the results of an exam, a friend had suggested it. The sweat, the pointed focus, the brutal thump of racquet on ball were the best possible remedy. It had been his chosen way to release pent up anxiety and frustration ever since. Well, his second choice, anyway.

Pacing back and forth in the parlor wasn’t a good substitute.

Garak watched him intently, as if trying to decide something. “Very well,” he said at length, answering a question that hadn’t been asked. “There _is_ something I usually do on Union Day, that perhaps...”

Without further explanation, Garak left the room. Just when Julian was beginning to wonder if he was supposed to have understood and followed, Garak reentered with two robes over his arm. He held one out.

“What—what’s this?”

“A travelling cloak, Doctor. Keeps the sand out of…well, everywhere.”

“A…travelling cloak.” Julian looked it up and down in disbelief. “And where would we be _travelling_ to?”

“We’re getting you out of… _here_.” He tapped Julian’s forehead with a light, mischievous fingertip.

“You mean…out…outside? Of the house?”

Garak made a small gesture that said the question was too ludicrous to answer. “You’ll need a mask as well. Even in the dark, it would be difficult to miss that lovely, smooth face.”

He could only imagine what emotions must be playing openly across that ‘lovely, smooth face’, but he pulled on the cloak and mask all the same.  “What happened to taking down half the neighborhood if I so much as stroll too far into the garden? Aren’t you—aren’t you worried I’ll escape?”

A smile that was pure challenge. “My dear doctor, you are more than welcome to _try_.”

_Damn him_. “And what diabolical precautions are there this time? More explosives?”

“Feel free to let that mystery sharpen the excitement, Doctor.”

Beneath the cloak, gooseflesh prickled up his arms despite the ever-present heat.

“I do like a good mystery now and again.”

“So I’ve heard.” Garak’s smile was impenetrable.

_Careful, Bashir. This has all the contours of a trap._

And an expertly laid one at that, for as soon as Garak opened the door, the buzz of night insects flared like song. Here at his feet, the neighborhood became a place altogether more enchanting than the jumble of squares he glanced down at in the full light of morning. What had looked spare and mundane took on ascetic beauty now, white and gray twined through each silhouette. In the sky above, stars blotted by the city lights were not his stars—not the stars of home—but beckoned with exotic shapes. In the far distance he could hear the diffuse sounds of late-night: the occasional stab of a half-sung verse or strain of music. 

It was Cardassia.

He’d been there for more than three weeks now, yet this was the first time he’d truly allowed himself to feel it. To recognize it.

The unmistakable thrill of adventure gripped him, but he hesitated, shooting Garak a questioning look.  “So, um…?” He mimed an explosion.

“I’ve tied the detonator to _my_ location now.” He gestured out the door. “Do try to stay close, Doctor.”

_Of course. Of course he had._

Well, that complicated things. But it wouldn’t stop him from keeping his eyes open. From mapping the area. And from, at the very least, trying to simply _enjoy_ the lack of four walls hemming him in.

He forced the tense breath from his throat and stepped over the threshold.

“Oh, and Doctor.”

Garak placed a hand on his shoulder once again. Julian’s heart stuttered in his chest, and he wondered, somewhere in the background of his mind, if Garak could sense the abrupt heat his touch provoked.

“Before we go, I _will_ have to ask for the hypo you’ve been hiding up your sleeve.”

_Shit._

Numb panic struck him. _Shit shit shit._ His frantic eyes found Garak’s, assessing the damage.

The Cardassian’s expression had not changed a jot.

“What—what do you—“

“Oh, come, Doctor. Let’s not allow lies to delay us.” He held out a hand, palm up like a parent demanding some hidden sweet. “It’s one thing to allow the charade to play out here, where Loral and I are the only possible victims, but I can’t exactly let you out on the streets with it, can I?”

How long had he known? Had he felt it when they’d touched shoulders? Or had he seen it that first night? Bloody hell. Had he known everything the _entire time_?

_Don’t give the whole game away by standing here gawping, you twit._ Trying to keep the questions from his face, he reached under the cloak and his tunic and, with some difficulty, extricated the vial from its strap beneath his bicep.

“You found it in my room, I take it?” He slapped it into Garak’s waiting palm.

“Loral did, as a matter of fact. She is an exceptionally _thorough_ housekeeper.”  He held it up, inspecting it. “Honestly, I’d have been disappointed in Starfleet if you _hadn’t_ been hiding some sort of…what is it, by the way? Paralytic? Sedative? Or was it meant to kill me outright?”

His eyes met Garak’s and found only amusement there.

There was no punishment. He wasn’t going to activate the CPP or take him back to Kaltak or even close the door and forget this sudden excursion into the Cardassian night.

_You’re not quite afraid of me anymore either, are you?_

Julian leaned in a little and whispered, testing. “Feel free to let that mystery sharpen the excitement, Mister Garak.”

Something in the almost feral look this earned him made Julian certain. _It’s not all feigned for him, either._

They stepped out into the moonlight together.

**********************

Julian’s first time away from Earth had been at six. Memories of that voyage were broken now, but shards littered his mind. The giddy shiver of excitement as foreign ground rose up to meet their shuttle. Strange trees and oddly-shaped buildings springing up from wrong-colored soil. Air that smelled clean, and light that filtered more gently, red against his skin. A hum he could feel in the soles of his feet.

He experienced some version of that excitement each time he touched down on a new world. There was always something to marvel at, even in the most desolate of places. In fact, in his experience, those places—the ones that put forward the harshest face--were often the ones that opened up to reveal the greatest mysteries.

Cardassia City was such a place.

The narrow neighborhood streets were empty, only the sound of their footsteps rising back up to greet them as they made their way down the hill and into Torr proper. Most of the tenements and houses had windows shuttered and lights out at this late hour.  In the far distance, skimmers whispered.

Just as they neared the base of the hill, Julian noticed that one home, a squat affair with a brown-tiled roof, had windows not shuttered but blackened with soot. In front of the door, a veil of sheer red hung, and a small pile of scarlet flowers drooped, petals puckered with the beginnings of decay. Several lines were written, flowing, on the walk in front of the door. Julian didn’t have to read Cardasi to know the grand, exaggerated script of tribute.

When he looked questioningly at Garak—somehow he couldn’t bring himself to disturb the quiet by speaking—Garak merely said “mourning,” and as they passed the veiled doorway, he made a small, somber gesture, touching two fingers to his chin.

They moved on.

Once clear of the neighborhood on the hill, Torr changed. Lights dotted the dark, and he could hear that, inside several establishments, Union Day celebrations continued. Here the sidewalks were no longer empty, and, as they made their way past another Cardassian for the first time, Julian tensed and adjusted his mask. It was hard to escape the feeling that even the small swatches of uncovered skin glowed neon in the lamplight, and that, the second someone got close enough, they would _know_.

But, as is often the case in large cities, the Cardassian barely noticed his existence, pushing past on his way elsewhere. Julian was just so much scenery—and unremarkable scenery at that.

So he drew the anonymity of night as close as possible, relaxing, observing. The viewscreens that blasted throughout day—he could hear the pronouncements sometimes through his window—were blessedly dark. Outside what must have been a large tavern, a figure half-shrouded in shadow shifted, and a woman’s voice hummed. “Elama vo’it, _s’sava_. Care to celebrate?” Her face slid into the light, beautiful, with lips painted carmine and a plain but flattering dress that exposed the spoon-shape on her chest.

Unfortunately, the distraction of her lips turned his head a moment too long, and he collided with a larger man, who had exited the tavern roaring the off-kilter song of the drunk.

_Oh, excellent, Julian. Impeccable stealth._

 “Watch yourself, minnow-bait!”

Heart racing, Julian turned his face away and did his best to look appeasing. He dared not speak in case the UT gave him away.

“Uncultured _and_ clumsy, are you? Not even an apology?”

Garak stepped in smoothly. Though several inches shorter than the other man, he gave the distinct impression of commanding the encounter.

“Uncultured is something you seem intimately familiar with.” The comment was delivered lightly, but there was nothing light in Garak’s face. He’d taken on an aspect Julian had not seen, superior and vulturine, and while Julian wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it, he had to admit it was…staggering in its force. “If you’re feeling slighted, however, I’d be more than happy to take your complaint to the Office of Public Order myself.”

The other Cardassian’s eyes fell to a spot on Garak’s lapel—a strange purple symbol Bashir had never seen.

The Cardassian, however, had clearly seen it and sobered, raising both hands in deference. “No—no trouble at all, _s’sava._ I apologize. _Elama vo’it_.”  He turned to Julian, too, and nodded. “ _Elama vo’it_.” As he disappeared back into the tavern, his quivering expression was unmistakable even in the dim light. _Fear_.

By the time he turned back to Julian, Garak’s face had regained its usual condescension. “Do watch where you’re going, Doctor.”

The people on the sidewalk parted as they walked on.

Around the next corner, the street diverged, one path continuing the pattern of taverns and one veering into a darker thoroughfare where several skimmers sat parked in a neat, beckoning line. The nearest was a mere 9.7 meters away. If he could—

“No, Doctor.”

_Damn him._ Julian hadn’t more than glanced that direction. How had he known? _The man might as well be a bloody Betazoid._

“You would have to incapacitate me, which would be your first and I daresay most insurmountable obstacle, though hardly your last. Beyond that, if you _could_ somehow drag my body behind you to a skimmer, you would have to decipher the skimmer’s activation without the specific DNA sequence of its owner. And where you would go, well…I think you’d better wait and see what other opportunities the evening affords you.”

For a moment he expected to look up and see the same brutal face that had greeted the drunken man outside the tavern. But Garak kept his eyes turned out on the night, expression thoughtful.

“Yes, apparently.”

“Or, if you will allow yourself to stand down, my dear Doctor, I believe you might even _enjoy_ this. Cardassia City on Union Day is…a rare sight for any non-Cardassian. And, speaking of rare sights…”

Taverns had given way to an area of markets and peculiar open spaces arranged in circles. As they neared a series of platforms and what looked like stages, Garak’s smile turned genuine. “This is the _arit’hira,_ and it’s the reason I’ve stayed in Torr.”

During the daylight hours, so Garak explained, Cardassians young and old filled the spaces of the _arit’hira_ , demonstrating rhetorical skills through speech and debate or displaying art for consumption and critique. Most of the spaces were empty at this time of night, but, as they approached the center of the largest circle, the soft ache of strings blossomed. Highlighted by a photolantern, three women cradled instruments across their laps, glossy silver strings flashing in the lamplight. One plucked wildly while the other two used bows—long, languorous sighs to counterpoise a savage staccato melody.

Julian leaned against a tree, lost on the winding path the tune drew through the night. The music was alien, to be sure: phrases never quite took the turn he expected, and, occasionally, a chord clashed against his ears, unpleasant. And yet, each note wrapped itself around something familiar. Warm. Universal. That was the thing about music: it was a language that always seemed to translate _somehow_.

When the trio finally fell silent, Garak gave several claps of polite approval before leaning in and making a request.

This melody was simpler, more solemn, and one of the women sang along in a supple voice that blended so seamlessly with the strings it might have been a fourth instrument.

The UT always muddled lyrics, he’d found. A communications officer he dated once had explained that it had something to do with prosody and wavelength variation or some such. So while most of the song reached his ears in the elegant tip-tap of Cardasi, the chorus managed to filter through:

_Drink deep, children, drink deep_

_Quench your thirst and do not weep_

_May my blood your life renew_

_Your mother will live on in you_

Around him, the few Cardassian onlookers, in unison, raised their right hands above their heads, palms up towards the stars and didn’t lower them until the last strands of song faded totally from the night.

Though no one clapped, it wasn’t for lack of enjoyment. Each spectator took a moment to thank the players, giving a few coins or a bow or a touch of palms. Even Garak’s face had gone wistful and content, and he handed the trio what must have been an impressive sum given that they all bowed, wide-eyed and effusive.

When they’d walked on for several minutes and he realized Garak didn’t intend to explain, he pressed.

“The first song was The Tempest’s Path from Ghivak’s _Orange Symphonies_. A favorite of late night revelers. The second was _Cardassia’or_ , _Memi Orit_. It isn’t the official anthem of the Union, but to many, it’s the song at the heart of it.”

It told, Garak explained, of a terrible drought and a mother who refused to drink so that her children might have more water. When they went to bury her body after death, her children discovered an underground spring which provided enough water to save not only them but the entire city.

Though Garak hadn’t said it, Julian had gathered enough scraps of Cardasi to know: the title meant _Cardassia, Mother of All._

They kept walking.

 

**********************

At first, Julian thought they were merely wandering, circling Torr on an enjoyable if lackadaisical sightseeing tour. But, after they boarded the train, he knew Garak must have some ultimate destination in mind. _He’s taking me somewhere_. A thought that should have instilled fear, perhaps, but somehow did little more than excite.

The shuttle-car was empty save one other passenger, and something in Garak’s demeanor encouraged her to find a different seat, for she moved to the adjoining car almost as soon as they sat down. Alone, Garak leaned back and narrated the sights that slipped past them through the night. The sleek glass offices of Barvanok. The multi-colored light show cast upon the flat face of the Natural History Museum. The Way of Heroes, where monuments to the greatest Cardassians flanked them, gray and stern-faced. Occasionally, in the distance, a _kili_ would bloom into sudden brightness, stealing brilliance from the stars.

Bit by bit as they looked out on the city, Garak’s voice changed, its usual insouciance giving way to fondness and—dare he say it—joy. Julian could feel it building with every syllable. This was the well-spring, the animus for all that sacrifice: an abiding and unshakeable love for this place and its people.

As Garak pointed out the _fanil_ trees lit by streetlamps in distant Coranum, explaining their significance in the ancient religion of the Hebitians, Julian thought fleetingly of Palis. He didn’t think of her much anymore, but the inquisitor’s voice brought it back.

The first time he’d seen her had been at the ballet. He’d been dragged by his roommate, almost literally, and had groused all the way through the first act. But when the curtain pulled back and Palis took the stage, the world stopped. The spotlight was on her, and it had stayed that way for years.

It had taken him the years since—and some rather painful, whiskey-fueled self-examination—to realize _why_ she’d captivated him so. Sure, she was beautiful: willowy, graceful, and all blue eyes. But he’d seen women more beautiful by far.

 And she was smart, too. And kind. But it was none of that which had drawn him in, held him, mesmerized, by her presence.

It had been her _passion_.

When Palis danced, it possessed her. Passion, determination, love, mastery—they had shone through her like the brilliance of sunlight fractured through crystal. She sparkled, and every line of her body spoke of that love—that total revelry in the thing itself. Its brightness never really faded, dancing or not.

He felt that same brilliance when practicing medicine.

And he saw it in Garak now, pale fire behind blue eyes, as he looked out on the Cardassian night and waxed poetic about the Darvat Museum’s nouveau-Hebitian style.

“Isn’t it striking, Doctor?”

Julian made sure his gaze flicked over to the window before he answered. “Yes—striking.” He tensed, realizing suddenly that he had leaned in close enough to feel the length of the other man’s leg pressed against his, ankle to hip. “Surprisingly so.”

He didn't move away.

****************

They disembarked at Station Rait’za—the Station of the Sun, Garak translated. As sights went, it was the grandest he’d seen on Cardassia: a main hub for shuttle lines, tracks radiated out in every direction, each marked with a sign in burnished bronze. The walls of the station itself arched up and overhead, all lined in gold, and, set at the apex, a mosaic formed an elaborate red and orange sun.  In the glow of the photolanterns, it gave the odd impression of sunlight amidst the dark of night.

By comparison, the monuments they passed through the Way of the Union seemed restrained, each simple and dignified and hewn of a stone representing a different Union world. A glaring emptiness highlighted the end of the walk on one side: the grass there had been replaced and carefully manicured, but it couldn’t quite hide the subtle outlines where a stone had once stood. It took him a moment to realize this must have been the stone for Bajor. He wished, for a fleeting moment, that he had a holocamera: the Major would have appreciated that picture.

The Way of the Union led into an open series of gardens, air redolent with the vigor of blossoms and the petrichor of well-worked soil. Each garden had a theme, and as they strolled through, Garak enumerated them. _Contemplation_ was a garden in three levels and between each a thin, spangled stream of water ran, balm to the hustling mind. Evergreens spiraled through _Legacy_ as undying and unchanging as the line of the family. In _Glory,_ flowers burst from their beds, crashes of red and yellow and white stretching their faces to the sky above as if in ululation.

_Love_ centered on a statue, and the path forced them to walk through Idelian poppies, knee-deep, to reach it. Atop a vine-laced pedestal, a man and woman stood, fingers interlaced, looking not at one another, but out at the Cardassian night. Unlike the more abstract memorials they’d passed on the way there, this statue reveled in detail, declaring every sinuous fold of robe or tiny circle of scale with obvious indulgence. 

“Do you recognize them, Doctor?”

As soon as Garak asked, he knew. “Prina and Ghelan.”

“Indeed.” He pointed to the Cardasi script that traced the base of the statue. “ ‘Their steel was not by fire burned but proof against all strength to break.’“

He remembered the line from _The Never-ending Sacrifice._ It had seemed just as overwrought then. “A tad melodramatic, isn’t it?”

“Indeed: that’s why I assumed you’d appreciate it. The sort of treacle your human Shakespeare might have coughed up.”

“‘If love be rough with you, be rough with love.’”

“You see, I don’t have to ask. I’d know those insipid iambs anywhere.”

Julian looked up once more at Ghelan’s face and saw something kindred in his eyes.

The last garden was _Beauty_ , all housed in green glass. It was the only garden locked off in such a way, but it took Garak only a moment, hands moving with practiced grace, to coax the lock open. _There’s no such thing as a locked door when your mind’s a key_ , he’d read once in one of his spy novels. And if ever he’d met a man with such a mind…

The air inside stuffed his mouth, perfume relentless. The scents of sugar and loam floated aimlessly, and between, aromas as distinct and yet complementary as colors in the rainbow. A single type of flower dominated here, each a shining white blossom that opened to reveal a blaze of red at its center—a thousand _kili_ bursting all at once, thick as carpet on the ground.

Julian settled on an open patch of grass and let the scent and the moonlight take him.

Garak, on the other hand, busied himself at the beds, stopping at each to examine the soil and the health of the flowers. Several times he knelt to pull up some offending weed or to remove a petal that had begun to wilt. After a few minutes of this, he pulled an implement from his cloak, and while Julian had no idea what it was he did next, he knew the look on Garak’s face well enough. The concentration, the exactness of the measurement, the delicate, skillful work of fingers—they were the movements of the operating room. This garden was a patient, and Garak its physician.

“This place is special. To you, I mean.”

“I used to come here as a boy,” he replied absently, still absorbed in his work. “Edosian orchids are a personal favorite.”

There was more: Julian could tell but didn’t press. “My mother kept lilies in a flower box out back. We moved quite a lot when I was young, chasing whatever scheme my father had in the works. But Mum always took those lilies with her and kept them going no matter the climate. ‘Nothing says home like a garden’ she would say.”

Seemingly satisfied with the success of his ministrations, Garak sat back and lowered his hood to expose his face to the fragrant air. “On Cardassia, gardens are a triumph. There’s never enough water. The sun is always too hot, the soil either too clogged with clay or loose with sand. Planting a garden, is, frankly, _foolish_. Planting gardens like these is hubris in the extreme. But we’ve made them _grow_ , Doctor. We’ve kept them alive.” He breathed in deep. “ _That_ is Cardassia. I come here every Union Day to remember.”

The way he said this forced Julian’s eyes to him once again. Face suffused with the same passion, he was a thing carved silver in moonlight, intricate patterns of scales thrown into relief like so much filigree. _He belongs here, in Beauty,_ Julian found himself thinking.

“Thank you—for bringing me here. I suppose I never allowed myself to imagine Cardassia as…beautiful. Complex.”

Garak didn’t respond, and he worried the words might have been taken as a slight. “I don’t mean that—I mean of course I knew, intellectually, that—”

“My father used to tend this garden.”

The statement came from nothing and was jarring in its openness.

“They named it _Beauty_ , but he always said it should have been _Strength_. It’s easy to look at these orchids and think of them as delicate—weak things to be coddled. As you can see, however, under the right circumstances, against the odds, they have thrived, even on Cardassia.” He glanced at Julian sidelong.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he let it bloom between them in green light and silence.

 

****************

Julian’s brain tended to keep perfect time—a tendency that had only sharpened on Cardassia—but how much time remained in the simulation or how long they spent in _Beauty_ , he couldn’t have said. Everything else dropped away, and he reveled in forgetting. Here the space opened and his mind opened with it, and he let himself expand, aware only of the feel of the air and of the solid, complicated presence of the other man beside him.

Then he let out a spectacular yawn.

It snapped Garak out of whatever reverie had claimed him, and, though he looked as reluctant to rise as Julian, there was no denying the dulled light beginning to run its tongue along the horizon.

They rode the shuttle in silence this time, watching the same scenery reverse itself through the rust of dawn.

_Back to your cell, Doctor._ The freedom had been unlooked for and generous, he supposed, but the idea of returning to the locked box of Garak’s house rankled. Even worse, the thought of returning to the way things had been. He picked at the dots of pollen on his robe.

Whatever had passed between them in the garden had begun to shrink from sight as the light returned, but it had taken up a heavy residence in the center of his chest.  It wasn’t the first time Garak had exercised a strange pull on him, certainly.  The man exuded an understated sort of charisma—a cocktail of mystery and intellect Julian knew himself particularly susceptible to. Sitting across from Garak and holding not only his attention but his mind had appealed from the very first time the Cardassian had hit him with the padded staff of _borroka_.

But this was different. This wasn’t pique. It wasn’t curiosity or competition or strategy. For one mad moment, he had felt…what? A squeeze. A timid, heart-quickened tug.

It was hard enough to acknowledge let alone label.

But then Garak glanced over at him, and he knew in an instant.

It was _desire_.

Not just lust, although, he was surprised to note, that was undeniably present. Garak wanted him, and Julian was more than inclined to give him what he wanted.

But the desire was _more._ A desire to know, to draw closer and to hold those blue eyes. More of everything that underlay that charisma. More of that delicate shape Parmak had outlined. More of his thoughts on T’Prim’s influence on the Vulcan Imagists. He wanted to argue, he wanted to spar, and he wanted… _more_.

But he came back, as always, to the lock on his door. To the tiny, angry device bolted to the back of his skull.

What was _wrong_ with him? Didn’t he know better than to feel this way?

“Is everything alright, Doctor?” Garak’s expression was mild.

No. He didn’t know better. He never did, it seemed.

 

*******************************

The simulation had finished thirty-two minutes before they walked in the door.  Without a pause to remove mask or cloak, Julian thumbed through the results on the console, almost frantic, looking for something to disprove it. Looking for _something_ that would wipe away the grin beginning to ignite from within.

There was nothing. The simulation had been a perfect, resounding success.

 “Good news, I take it?”

He pulled aside the mask, letting his smile blaze fully. “Mister Garak, I hope you have a very expensive bottle of kanar because this deserves a toast.”

And, it turned out, he did.

Julian had always felt that kanar, by and large, was little better than fermented molasses. The swill Quark kept almost had to be chewed, really. But this that Garak poured was a different beast. This, as Garak explained with _great_ enthusiasm, was the finest varietal—several orders of magnitude finer than any other vintage on the planet. You couldn’t walk in and order this in a bar: the wealthy of Cardassia reserved it for the toasting of major events like marriages, first births, promotions. And unlike other kanar, it was aged in accordance with ancient techniques, without the use of modern technology and kept…

Honestly, he lost the thread of Garak’s lecture as soon as the taste caught him. The usual dense sweetness, yes, but beneath, hidden among those blunt notes, the sparkle of something more intriguing. Mum in the kitchen, making coffee. The sharpness of spice. Ginger, perhaps.  Something smooth and cold as cream.

No, this drink wasn’t to be served with a side of sandpeas and yamok sauce.

Whatever noise he made was enough to halt Garak’s lecture in its tracks. “You approve?”

“Approve? Garak this is…you know, I don’t have upmarket tastes. I’m the whiskey and soda sort. But this…this might make a kanar man of me yet.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t get too used to it, Doctor. A single bottle of _golet_ -vintage…let’s just say, this is the only one I’ve ever owned.”

Suddenly the glass in his hand felt hopelessly delicate. “Oh. I—I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have asked you to open it if I’d—“

“Not at all, Doctor. It’s Union Day—well, the trailing end of it—and you’ve done the Union a great service. Certainly an appropriate occasion.”

“You weren’t…saving it for something?”

Garak paused briefly, and Julian couldn’t help but wonder if he was pulling together a lie. “I bought it for a promotion. Parmak’s. Unfortunately, he waited until I’d brought it out to tell me he couldn’t drink something that so clearly symbolized the, let me see…the ‘elite’s over-indulgent clutch on prosperity at the expense of the less fortunate’. Or some such.”

Parmak was too good for this man. “Those ‘damned men of principle’ again.”

“Yes, you certainly know how to spoil a good thing,” he said, all arch. “And anyway, aren’t you men of principle the ones always going on about enjoying life and following your passions?”

“Things get a bit dicey when principles intersect, you understand.”

The inquisitor’s smile was expansive. “Oh, I do. That’s where men like me worm our way in. Those tiny little cracks _._ ”

Julian drowned that thought in a gulp of _golet,_ deciding a pivot from that topic might be best. “So…service to the Union. I feel like a proper Cardassian.”

 “A ‘proper Cardassian’ wouldn’t slurp down his _golet_ as if it were taspar broth.”

“Oh? I can’t even drink properly, now, is that it?”

“You go at it like you go at your meals; no savor. And with _golet—_ as with so many things—half the pleasure is in the _lingering_ enjoyment.”

Those blue eyes had him now.

“The young have little appreciation for such things. You plow through your pleasure as if there will always be more waiting at the end.”

Julian had come to know this particular bit of _sita_ only too well. Garak played the knowledgeable, condescending man of years; Julian played the impetuous youth, intent on challenging such received wisdom. God, he really _did_ enjoy it. Why did he enjoy it?

He pasted on his cheekiest smile with relish. “So I suppose asking for a plate of _cake-and-ghevet_ to go with this would be out of the question?”

“Do _all_ humans think with their stomachs or is that delightful quirk yours alone?”

“I’ve never been accused of thinking with my _stomach_.”

_Oh, perhaps a bit less subtle than usual…_

“Certainly another affliction of the young.” A pause, short but thick. “I’d be cautious with the _golet_ , Doctor. It’s a great deal more potent than the _breet_ -vintage you’re accustomed to.”

_You’re not kidding._ The tingle of liquor already thrummed through him, the world delightfully soft about the margins.  It was turning up the heat of _borroka_ with delicacy and grace, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to end up thoroughly sozzled. _But delicately. With grace._

Garak cleared his throat as if clearing away the slight hint of awkwardness on the air. “Perhaps, rather than sucking down my best liquor like a _minav_ at the teat, you could walk me through these simulation reports on the antiviral…? I’m sure there will be questions.”

The request did a wonderful job of sobering him momentarily. Walking others through the jargony bits and bobs of such reports was something he truly enjoyed: not only did he love the subject, but he loved drawing others into it with him. Over the years, he’d gotten better, he thought, at reading the little tells of boredom—the glazed eyes, the head-turn, the tiny squirm in the seat—and adjusting to his audience, well…at least a bit.

He monitored Garak closely but had to pull back only when the data turned numerical. In fact, the only impatience the inquisitor showed was with Julian moving too slowly. Julian had never met anyone with the easy breadth of knowledge Garak regularly displayed, as comfortable talking about epidemiology as kanar fermentation or isolinear subprocessors or deontological ethics.  _He really is very bright_.

With those blue eyes settled on him, almost tactile, a heat rose in his center, half kanar and half something entirely different. _Not bright. Brilliant._

“An ingenious solution, Doctor.” He set down the padd and lifted his glass slightly in toast. “For Cardassia.”

And here they were again, where he’d sat, uncomfortable, with Parmak just a few weeks earlier. Except now, for some reason, the choice was so easy. “For Cardassia,” he heard himself say, without irony, following the words with the sweet-and-more of _golet._

_Well, that’s a change, isn’t it?_ Somehow, after walking the streets and hearing the music and sitting in the midst of a hundred strong orchids, lifting his glass seemed a foregone conclusion. _Just like him_. Cardassia had pulled him in just the same.

Garak watched him, not bothering to hide his appraisal. “Cardassia is lucky to have called on you, Doctor. You know, Parmak once told me that good doctors—the really good ones—tend to be one of two types: the type who’ve always known they wanted to practice medicine and the type brought to it through personal tragedy. Which was it with you, Bashir?”

Even through the haze of _golet_ -vintage, the effect of his name on Garak’s tongue startled him. Was the kanar getting to Garak as well? Or was this _borroka_? Occasionally, Garak seemed to improvise, veering from the petty or insulting to the genuine with a deftness that kept Julian delightfully off-balance.

_Well, then, let’s keep him off-balance just the same._ “You know people are _always_ asking doctors that question: ‘what made you want to become a doctor?’”

“Oh, well. Forgive the pedestrian inquiry. I’ll endeavor to be more scintillating in future.”

“No, I just meant—I’ve answered that question a hundred times, but…I’ve always told a different story.” He sighed, cutting his eyes up to the inquisitor as if in confession. “And none of them _entirely_ true.”

Garak smirked. “’A harlot’s spirit’ after all.”

He decided to blame the kanar for the color that rose in his cheeks. “It’s just—I’ve never been able to be _completely_ honest on that score. Besides, people don’t want to hear the truth, not really. Patients want to hear that you’ve always wanted to be a doctor and you’ve devoted yourself to it every day of your life. Dates are looking for something dramatic or endearing. Maybe I was trapped with a dying girl on a planet. Or I was afraid of doctors but learned to face my fears. Or I really wanted to be a tennis player. The stories are all true—or true enough, anyway.”

“A lovely description of a lie. And what might the less lovely truth be?”

He wet his lips with kanar as if easing it out. “That healing is the only part of me I know—truly _know_ —is real and not...”

“…Constructed?” he offered.

_Constructed_.

Garak had struck the word and it resonated, ringing with all the insistence of the kanar through his veins.

“Yes, _yes_ , precisely. I don’t have many intact memories from…before. Everything was sort of… reordered, recycled into something more _useful,_ no doubt. But I—I still have that first memory of… _healing_. I didn’t really know what to call it then. Words were unwieldy. Slow. All I knew was that someone—someone I cared for—was broken, and I could see precisely how to fix him.”

“Personal tragedy, then?”

“To a five year old, sure.” He grinned into his glass. “It was my teddy bear…a sort of soft toy I’d taken to and used for comfort when things got overwhelming. I found him on the top of the rubbish heap one day; one of his legs was off, little bits of stuffing everywhere. Mum had just…chucked him. I mean, God, I had a hundred stuffed animals: I’m sure she didn’t even think twice. But I knew that this one—he could be okay, if I just _fixed_ it.” It still clenched in his gut, that need to _save_. “It wasn’t like at school: words weren’t necessary. I could see the solution like a map, and I followed it. I sewed him up, and tucked him back into my bed, good as new. And I kept doing that, every worn patch of fur, every popped stitch or lost batting. I always _fixed_ him.”

The silence was relentless and painfully open. The vulnerable truth had tumbled from his mouth for the first time and sat for inspection in the dangerous space between them. How foolish was he to release it here, to Garak of all people?

But when he spoke, Garak’s voice had the businesslike certainty of someone who had measured a truth and grasped its dimensions entirely.

“He didn’t deserve the rubbish heap, and you, unlike your parents, understood that.”

Their eyes met, punctuation in blue.

It hit not like the padded staff of _borroka_ but like a caress. Firm, gentle, _understanding._

And like everything else tonight, unexpected.

It would have been difficult for Julian to envision a man more different from him. Where he healed, Garak broke. Where he yearned, Garak abstained. His compassion opposed Garak’s cold pragmatism almost completely.

Yet somehow their jagged edges met just so in these moments, and, as he looked at the other man, he felt it: the burning need to press those edges together. To fit.

The _golet_ felt cool. It smothered, and he gulped.

“Your parents might have ordered you up some enhanced _manners_ while they were at it _._ ”

“What?”

“Honestly, I’ve never seen someone treat _golet_ with such disrespect.” Garak’s face reverted to exasperation, and just like that the thick intimacy evaporated, returned to the ease of _sita._

Relieved, he smiled. God, the Cardassian was infuriatingly good at this.

“Oh, well then, _s’sava_. By all means, do teach me some manners.” _Oh now, Julian, that wasn’t_ borroka. _That was just plain flirting_.

Garak leaned forward with a smirk. Julian’s heart skipped.

But Garak merely took hold of Julian’s glass, pulling his long fingers away gently. “You’re holding the thing like a Klingon crushing a goblet of bloodwine. We’re not quaffing between verses from _Aktuh and Maylota_.” His hand wrapped Julian’s around the bowl of the glass.  “Cradle it in the palm. Allow your natural heat to release the scents more readily.” Kanar outlined the absence of Garak’s hand on his. “Now, close your eyes.”

He did.

Garak’s voice was low and close. _Natural heat._ “What do you smell, Doctor?”

Ever the good pupil, Julian tried to focus on the assignment, drawing in the warmed perfume of the _golet_. “Cardamom, or something like it. And that syrupy smell. And something…bitter?”

“Open your mouth and allow the scent to wind its way down. To take shape.”

He parted his lips and let the smell trickle down the back of his throat. With a hot, internal tremble he could sense Garak watching his mouth.

“And what do you smell now?”

Enhanced receptors printed the composition of the kanar across his brain as efficiently as any computer console: glycerol and malic acids, ammonium salts. Nitrogenous compounds and chitinases.

But the sharpest scent was not kanar. It was soap and old _civit_ and soil. It was sulfur and starched fabric and the pepper of something pheremonal.  

_You, Mister Garak_. _I_ _smell_ you.

His eyes opened to find Garak’s, and Garak smiled. “ _Now_ have a taste, Doctor.”

They were close. The glass touched Garak’s lips, his pupils dilated, his throat working, and Julian knew, in a moment, what he was about to do.

He might have blamed his exhaustion or the kanar or the odd heat of the conversation.

But those were lies. It was that same aching stab of _desire_.

And the moment the glass lowered, his lips were on Garak’s, insistent. Though doubt threatened as soon as those kanar-moistened lips were beneath his, he pushed through it, letting a hand rest on the Cardassian’s shoulder to draw him closer. The other man let out a small noise of surprise, but he didn’t pull away, even when Julian’s tongue traced the closed line of his mouth, begging entrance.

Oh yes, how they _fit_.

The inside of Garak’s mouth was curiously cool. And sweet. The feel of that tongue on his sent sparks, bright as _kili_ , straight to his groin. And that _hiss._ God, joined like this, he could feel it juddering down him, threatening to shiver apart what little self-control remained.

And several thoughts occurred to him at once.

First, Cardassians _don’t kiss._

Second, Garak was not kissing him back. Garak was not moving. But Garak was _accepting_.

Third, this was the man who held him prisoner, this man he was tasting.

Fourth, he _really_ wanted to do more.

But, after allowing himself the full and savoring taste Garak had insisted upon, he didn’t. He pulled away, desperate both to avoid eyes and to search them. To find some hint of what that moment meant.

But there was no something to be found. Only _nothing_ , in its very full and complete definition: no expression, no sound, no movement. No breath.

Nothing was, perhaps, the one thing he could not handle.

Only a few uncertain seconds passed before he stepped away and retreated up the stairs.

 

******************

It was the comm, too high-pitched and loud, that woke him.

He’d fallen asleep draped across the bed, head buried under his pillow in some childish attempt to hide from the world. For a few seconds as he woke to that grating chirrup, he could almost convince himself that it had been a dream. _Or a drunken hallucination, more like._

Then his dry tongue reminded him, all stale _golet_.

He made an effort to smooth down his hair and straighten the neckline of his shirt before he accepted the message.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Bashir.” Doctor Parmak looked worried.

“Parmak. Is something wrong?”

“No, I was just—concerned. I came by this morning to discuss the results you sent, but Loral told me you were…indisposed.”

Bashir blinked. Garak must have told her not to disturb him. God, he hoped that was all he’d told her.

“I—I was knackered. Waited up all night for the results, and I guess it caught up to me.”

Parmak’s dark eyes were appraising. Something in them made Julian wonder. _Can he tell?_ Was it written across his face that plainly?

“I see. Well, congratulations—you’ve certainly earned your rest.”

“You, too, Parmak. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

They smiled warmly at one another for a long moment.

Parmak was more than worried. Parmak looked afraid.

“I was concerned that …” He stopped, apparently deciding against whatever he was going to say. “Has Garak given you any indication as to what to expect next?”

“I’m not sure he knows. I hope, though, that he will recommend my return to Deep Space Nine.”

Something in his voice must have betrayed him. “You…don’t sound as enthusiastic as I’d expect.”

“It’s not that. I just—I’m a little apprehensive about what will be waiting for me there.”

“I’d think you’d be more apprehensive about what’s waiting for you here. Surely Starfleet would be more than grateful for your return.”

“Perhaps not, given my _status_.”

Parmak’s face was a study in confusion. “Status?”

“Yes. The Federation doesn’t look too kindly on…” He trailed off. Parmak should have understood. Parmak should have known.

The question came sudden and airless. Could Garak have kept it from Parmak?

In order to keep it from Parmak, Garak would have kept it from the Medical Bureau.

Frantic, his mind recalled the copy of the orders Garak had left for him to find. Nothing about his genetic status, though it would have made sense to mention it.

Parmak was still watching him with open curiosity.

“The Federation can be distrustful of anyone who has been away this long,” he said, trying to adapt. “There have been instances of surgically-altered Cardassians infiltrating Starfleet. But…I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Well, I do hope they’ll send you home, Bashir. Though I haven’t the influence Garak does, I’ll do my best to work towards that end, too, my friend.” Parmak’s voice was warm, but beneath it, Julian felt cold doubt. It gave him a rare chill.

“And I hope I’ll see you for one last glass of _civit_ before you go.”

Julian said something as appeasing and grateful as he could before disconnecting the comm.

Garak hadn’t told Parmak. Or the Medical Bureau. Perhaps even the Central Command.

Julian swallowed and allowed himself to ask the question, though it caused hope to swell, dangerous, in his chest.

Did _Starfleet_ really know?

Julian sat on the edge of the bed, trembling but resolute.

He wasn’t sure how, but somehow he was going to have to do the impossible. He was going to have to get the truth from Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, it's been awhile longer than I wanted. Hopefully everyone is still with me and still remembers where we were in this tale. If you're still here, *thanks* for sticking around and for being patient with me and my tardiness. As always I have endeavored to make it worth the wait.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudosed or commented, and, as usual, please continue to as the spirit moves you. Comments of any kind are one of the joys of life, right up there with puppies, warm coffee, and Bashir's rolled-up sleeves+zipped down turtleneck in Season 6 A Time to Stand. 
> 
> And finally a *huge* thank you to my amazing beta, [Lilith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith/pseuds/Lilith). They had some incredibly insightful notes on this chapter, and some of these scenes were truly perfected by them.
> 
> And, of course, feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8) if that's your sort of thing!


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

Reality sketched itself in faltering strokes, light fluttering from darkness. The too-loud sound of his breath echoed: in fact, sound attacked from all sides, amplified in the cold air.  Brightness nipped, aggressive.

He knew this glare, this painful pitch.

This was the Trench.

A tentative movement of hand found it bound. Heart jumping, he tried a leg.

Laughter scattered all other sounds like dust in the sun. “Don’t try and wriggle out of this, Inquisitor.”

He hadn’t felt the gag in his mouth until he attempted to speak. His jaw creaked.

“What no clever retort? That’s a first.” Bashir trailed the wave of his voice, wreathed in angry light. “I’d say an improvement, wouldn’t you, Kelas?”

Garak followed Bashir’s glance. While Bashir skulked and circled, Parmak sat across from him, stone still. His eyes never left Garak’s, fierce and sharp as the instruments that surrounded him. He did not speak.

“So…Inquisitor. Is it how you imagined it? Sitting on that side of the room?” Bashir leaned on Parmak’s chair, all limbs and smiles, more beautiful than anything Garak had ever seen. “Is it almost…a relief? To wait. To watch. To be led through the dance you usually lead…?”

Garak’s stomach clenched. He expected the pure, keen edge of rage but found it jumbled up, dulled by fear. Shame. And something…abject.

He swallowed, trying to hold back the string of saliva threatening to overflow the gag.

Parmak gave Bashir a nod.

 “Quite right, Kelas. Quite right. It’s only sporting to be sure he gets the _full experience._ ”

Bashir’s grin unrolled further as he pushed the button.

Every nerve lit, a crash of agony the wire transmuted immediately into throbs of pleasure. His moan tossed muffled at the ceiling only to rebound, shattered into a thousand ecstatic pieces. The walls groaned. Pleasure pressed down, ceaseless, and he was ground beneath.

Through the haze, Bashir advanced like a slow-limbed animal and leaned down, catching Garak in his eyes. With a single crooked finger he pulled the gag from Garak’s mouth and hummed approvingly as Garak’s moans rang fully, unleashed in all their humiliating need. The same single finger traced the ridges of his neck—a delicate note that sharpened his lust until it sang.

Just as the pleasure was so great as to wind round once more to pain, Bashir leaned in and kissed him. Hot human tongue cleaved. Soft. Punishing. Incredible.

He cried out anew. Bashir swallowed it with a chuckle that never left his throat.

And the light redrew itself.

Reversed, re-sketched, into the faint outline of sun behind drawn shades and the dry pages of _The Praetor’s Dilemma._

He blinked. The anger of the light had mellowed; the air was warm and familiar. _The library, you fool._

Ancestors, had he actually cried out? Or had that just been the dream?

Tain was right: this was what happened when you allowed sentiment to dig too deep. Even for a night.

Several deep, difficult breaths slowed the needful beat of his heart and the over-eager blood rushing to his groin. The wisps of dream dissipated, and in the space they left, he saw two things with absolute clarity.

First, he wanted the human.

Of course he did. He’d wanted him since the moment he’d seen him bound to that chair. But this was worse—sharper and _more_. He wanted _more_. Bashir wasn’t simply a beautiful object to entertain the body.  No, Garak enjoyed every part of the human: his face, yes, but his mind _,_ too _._ His nerve. His ability to play the words and looks between them with a deft hand. The ease with which he floated between pointed insult and thoughtful debate and startling—if unnerving—honesty. Something in that mix had changed the simple stab of lust to the complex pain of _desire. Need._

Which led him, inexorably, to the second thing.

Bashir was in control.

Firmly and totally, the human _had_ him.

A flicker of those lips, parting, as he smelled the _golet_.

He shook his head. A probe’s mistake, from the start. He should have put an end to the game the _moment_ he realized. That very moment, as they sat in the library, when the human had crossed the line, and he _enjoyed_ it.

It had seemed harmless then. It had seemed harmless just a few hours before when he’d watched Bashir playing _kotra_ and promised himself just one more night—just one more night of play.

When had the game gotten out of hand?

 _When you saw it in his eyes, too_. When the doctor had leaned in close and shown him the same truth reflected back.

_And you didn’t end it._

This wasn’t a game. This was _dangerous_.

He swallowed and tried very hard to think about Altak Anat, tried to recall his face and the promise he had made to himself. Instead he found only the doctor’s face waiting, upturned in moonlight, musk buried in the scent of orchids. Turned down, lips pressed against him in that odd human way. Odd but…pleasant. Too pleasant.

And that look in his eyes—he wanted it, too.

 _It doesn’t matter, lis’sea. These things are fleeting_.

Yes. If anything could smother the fire he was feeling, it was Mila’s voice. _Yes. Good. More of that._

 _Cardassia is our forever. Will you forget that before the ashes of the_ kili _have been swept away?_

He reached toward the voice and felt certainty, comforting. Solid. It would end now. He’d had his night. It had been stupid; it had been reckless.

It had been wonderful.

But now was for Cardassia.

“Garak?”

He hadn’t heard the doctor approach: when had he become so distracted? 

“Doctor Bashir.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he combed them for any hint of emotion. None. _At least you can still manage to control_ something.

The doctor hovered just inside the doorway, looking so uncomfortable Garak almost felt discomfort worm its way through the bars of his carefully erected indifference.  “I…would you mind if I…joined you? To—to read, I mean.”

_Send him away, Elim. Send him back to his room and lock the door._

“If you like.”

“Uh—yes—thank you.” He slid into the chair across from Garak.

Garak blinked. _Think of Cardassia._ He turned to his book like an escape pod.

> Rokal hadn’t expected them to find her. She’d covered over her tracks with care and ensured

“Is there any word…on the antiviral?”

“None as yet, but I can assure you that Doctor Parmak is pressing your test results into the hand of every person he passes in the hallway at the Medical Bureau. And making sure they know who they have to thank for it.”

“Ahh, well, that’s…good of him.”

> covered over her tracks with care and ensured that all flight logs provided none of the names Servek had used

“Do you, um, have any recommendations? For reading material?”

He was glad to see Bashir looking with determination at the shelves and not at him.  Everything was much easier when the human kept those eyes elsewhere. “Many, Doctor. But each depends on what sort of book you’re looking for. Another novel? A play? A history?”

“I was thinking of…poetry, maybe.”

“Poetry.”

“I noticed you have an extensive collection.” In his lap, the doctor fidgeted with the loose fabric at the knee of his pants. An annoying habit. “Who’s your favorite Cardassian poet?”

“I’m partial to Umata Len. _What is Given, What is Known_ is a work unparalleled in Cardassian verse. But I suspect, given your dislike for _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ , you might not appreciate it.” As much as he itched to let the words turn sharp on his tongue, he kept them dull. Detached.

Bashir followed his lead, even. “And what might I appreciate?”

An easy answer. “You should start with Ilian Kavit’s _Odes to a Red Sun_. Kavit wrote in the Hebitian style and is widely regarded by the masses as our finest poet.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “And he’s Parmak’s favorite.” _So no doubt you’ll enjoy the florid drivel just as much._ But he left that unsaid, held in like breath.

 “I think Parmak’s as good a guiding star as any.”

The doctor’s forced half-levity was as uncomfortable as silence, so Garak pushed through it quickly. “I’m afraid I don’t have a copy in Standard, however. We’d have to wait for the translation matrix. Unless, of course, you read Vulcan? Parmak gifted me with a translation before a…trip to Vulcan. It translated surprisingly well, I thought.”

 “I took a few years of Vulcan at the Academy. I think I could make my way through, you know, while I wait for a translation.” He crossed to the shelves and crouched low, squinting across the spines in search of the proper volume.

Almost without his awareness, Garak’s eyes drifted down the other man’s body.

_Cardassia, lis’sea._

The smell of coffee wafting in braced him—pulled him back to himself.

“Oh, thank you, Loral,” Bashir said as she set a silver tray with a pot and two mugs between them. She gave the human a small smile.

He had her too.

Loral glanced up at Garak for only a moment, but he saw it clearly enough. She sensed something. She sensed something, and she _didn’t_ approve. But, of course, she said nothing and left, closing the door discreetly behind her.

A flutter just beyond the reach of his mind. As the door clicked shut, it threatened.

 _Trapped_.

He stood bolt upright and opened the shutter, letting the early afternoon light slide in and over his scales. Heat and deep breaths and the rich scent of coffee tamped down the cresting wave of panic.

_For now._

“Could I interest you in a cup, Mister Garak?” A trickle as the doctor poured his own. “I’ve, um, had some trouble keeping my eyes open today. After last night.”

_No, let’s not revisit it, please, Doctor._

“I mean…because it was late.”

The awkward clink of a spoon on ceramic.

“Obviously.”

Garak tried to return to his book.

> would provide none of the names Servek

“I mean, not that—“

“No coffee, thank you, Doctor.”

Bashir nodded, looking grateful for the fullness of the stop. “You know, when I first met Parmak, he tried to get me to have a cup of tea. Said it was good to have something to do with your hands. When things were uncomfortable.”

“I’m not feeling particularly uncomfortable.” Sometimes the tight perfection of his lies surprised even him. “Are you?”

“Oh…oh, no. I mean…” But he didn’t seem to know how to finish the thought believably. Instead he gave his coffee another stir and busied his mouth with drinking instead.

> the names Servek had used in their past affairs. Always the most ridiculous names. They’d argued about it on several occasions, she recalled. He was fond of names from his youth which were, of course,

“I noticed you don’t have any human poets in your collection.”

The doctor wasn’t going to let the moment settle into silence, he could tell. “I can’t say I’ve ever had the opportunity to read any.”

“Oh, you should. I mean, if you like poetry, there are _loads_ of amazing poets. Shelley. Keats. Dickenson. But, they’re more up Parmak’s alley, probably. You’d be more of—hmm. Maybe Eliot?” He held up his spoon with a crooked sort of grin. “’I have measured out my life with coffee spoons’ and all that.”

Garak tilted his head.

“That’s from one of his famous ones, _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock._ And there’s the _The Hollow Men_ , though I don’t know about that through Cardassian eyes. I didn’t care for it much. Maybe that recommends it, eh?”

Garak was sure the doctor knew he was rambling, but he seemed unable to stop.

“And, uh, other poets…Well, it depends on your tastes, really. If you’re impressed by formalists, Pravanajad was one of the twenty-second century’s best-known—“

“Perhaps I _will_ have that coffee after all, Doctor.”

The gambit paid off, and Bashir poured in welcome silence.

He glanced over again at the closed door. How was he going to extricate himself from this? From this room, from this situation, from this inconvenient mess he’d made for himself?

Bashir held the mug out, steaming.

 _You’re not, Elim._ Sentiment of this sort was like the sucking sands of the Haria Swamps: the more you struggled against it, the tighter its hold.

So he was going to sit. And drink his coffee. And pretend none of it existed. The Cardassian mind was unparalleled when it came to compartmentalizing, reorganizing. He was going to lock it all up and throw away the key.

The warmth of the mug was steadying. “Thank you, Doctor. I do hope you enjoy Kavit, even through a Vulcan lens. If you’re interested, I’ll have the Archives send any Standard translations on file. The matrix tends to tear poetry to shreds, but perhaps one of our scholars has crafted a truer version... Now, if you don’t mind…?” He gestured to his open novel.

Thankfully the doctor found no way to stammer around that, cracking his own book and turning his eyes away.

Without those eyes on him, Garak tried once more to settle into Rokal’s escape. But the subject was too light and the sentence never completed itself, trailing off into his own thoughts about coffee and _golet_ and how strange a custom it was to press _lips_ together, of all things…

With a sigh, he closed the book and turned his attention to the day’s briefings.

Lok had recalled Merek from his operation with the Aspect and taken Censor Amar into holding for his involvement. Garak had agreed to oversee the Censor’s interrogation: Lok would have his hands full interrogating Ghemor and the Bajoran woman. That operation, Entek estimated, would be concluded sometime in the next five days.

He sipped his coffee, grateful for it and for the return to business. _Everything is beginning to bear fruit_. It would do him good to be back in the interrogation chamber, back working with operatives, back in _service_. This affair with the human had been interesting, to be sure, but it had distracted him. There were plenty of things more in need of his attention.

 _Like this business with the Dominion_. The next entry on the padd was the latest intelligence their contacts had obtained through the wormhole. He was still learning the terms— _Jem’hadar._ _Vorta_. But they didn’t concern him nearly as much as these _Founders_.

Shapeshifters. Troubling indeed. It was hard to fight a threat that could sneak in looking just like anyone else.

_And before you know it you’re eating viinerine and wearing nothing but gray._

The doctor might have had a point there. If anyone could pick up the weapon of the Cardassian state, it was a group of changelings.

“Look, um…Mister Garak…”

 _Oh no._  

The doctor had closed his book, intent abundantly clear.

“About last night…the kiss…”

“Really, Doctor. There’s no need to discuss—“

“No, no, I—got a bit…carried away and…I shouldn’t have done that without at least some indication that it would be…welcome. I’m—“

“It was. I rather enjoyed it.”

Garak paused. He hadn’t meant to say that. A far more withering reply had been poised just on the tip of his tongue.

Then two things happened at once.

He realized what Bashir had done.

And Bashir hit him in the neck with a hypo.

The room turned on its head, bookshelves and windows arching past in a blur. Every muscle beneath his neck disconnected, and, like a puppet with strings cut, he crumpled, slumped over the arm of his chair, hair across his face in disarray. He kept expecting the fade to black, but it didn’t come. No, his vision remained crystal clear and forced him to take in every sideways detail of this indignity.

Bashir stood and watched. Seconds passed in excruciating, paralyzed silence.

Or minutes. Or hours. Garak couldn’t have said.

Eventually, in tentative half-steps, Bashir closed the distance between them. Hands on his shoulders, the human scooped him back up, and, in a humiliating display, pushed the hair from Garak’s face, combing it back into place with several gentle pets of his fingers.

Garak opened his mouth to speak but was having trouble finding words to adequately encapsulate the rage that flared through him.

 _What no clever retort? That’s a first._ His dream called to him, mocking. Had he known on some level? Had his mind been hinting to him?

He felt, for a moment, as if he might scream. Order operatives, especially at his level of clearance, began each week with a hypo meant to protect against a variety of psychoactive drugs. It was the nature of the job: you never knew when you’d find yourself at the mercy of someone who wanted to _know_ something. The wire protected against pain; the hypos protected against _this_.

Garak kept his hypo and all its vials locked in the bedside table. He took one every Velet morning when he woke.

But this morning…this Velet morning…well he’d been _busy_ with the doctor, hadn’t he? _Distracted_.

He hadn’t been to bed, so he hadn’t taken precautions.

The human might have called it “bad luck.” But Garak knew better. This was his _punishment_.

Bashir crouched, brows drawn together in concern as he put a hand to Garak’s temple. “Don’t worry, Garak. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“A most unwise decision, Doctor. If I survive this, I promise you, I won’t be so kind.”

The human pouted at him a moment, full-lipped and maddeningly gorgeous, but said nothing.

“You had another vial, I see,” Garak pressed again, keeping the observation as dry as he could.

“Same trick you played with the listening devices. Let him find one so he thinks he’s well ahead.”

He felt as if he were trembling, but his frozen body didn’t allow even that release. “I applaud your cunning, Doctor. It seems you’re using _all_ my tricks today.”

“It’s a short-acting paralytic. You’ll be back to yourself in an hour or so, I promise.”

“I think we both know that it’s not _just_ a paralytic.”

Bashir avoided his face. “I apologize, Mister Garak. I really do. But I need the truth about a few things and this—“ He gestured up and down Garak’s useless body. “Was the only way I knew I could believe you.”

“Well, then, you can believe me when I say that you’re going to _regret_ it.”

For just a beat, the human met his eyes. He looked away quickly.

The cold detachment of training tugged at him, and, with difficulty, Garak forced himself from the tempting smolder of rage and to his breathing. Time to rally his defenses. Of course he knew something of resistance to such drugs, but there was no foolproof way of holding one’s tongue in some circumstances. He would have to rely on a combination of his own mental discipline and the doctor’s relative inexperience in questioning to protect his—and Cardassia’s—secrets.

Though somehow he doubted the doctor was interested in the fleet’s defensive posture in the DMZ.

“Well, then, Doctor. Ask away. You certainly have my full attention.”

“When was the last time you had sexual contact with a female, Mister Garak?”

 _Oh, very clever, you two-faced_ vor’nek _._ He _could_ resist this answer, but there was no need to let the doctor know that just yet. “Five and a half years.”

 _Don’t think of Palandine_. Letting the mind wander was a sure way to lose control.

“And with a male?”

“Four months.”

“That was Parmak?”

The question shocked him with its bluntness, which, he supposed, had been the point. The “yes” sprang from his lips without so much as a second—or really a first---thought.

The doctor’s brow furrowed. _Not quite sure if that worked, are you?_ _Amateur._

“Who knows about my genetic status?”

Ahhh, so that’s what this was about. He’d finally guessed it. Or perhaps Parmak had given it away. That had been a risk, he knew—a risk he’d anticipated being able to lie his way around.

“Nothing to say to that?”

Garak merely smiled.

“Unfortunately, Garak, I’m a doctor _and_ I’ve read quite a lot of spy novels. I know there are tricks to this. I expect the Obsidian Order prepares you well, but I know that at the dosage I’ve given you, a direct yes-or-no question is going to be almost impossible for you to mute through, even with that superior Cardassian mind you like to bang on about.”

_Drek and vret. Focus, Elim._

“So let me ask you again.” The human’s eyes were surprisingly soft, belying the hardness of what he did.  “Does Parmak know about my augmentation?”

“No.”

 “Does the Medical Bureau know about my augmentation?”

“No.”

“The Central Command?”

“No.”

“Does anyone else on Cardassia know about my augmentation?”

“Yes.”

When the doctor paused briefly, Garak was unable to hide the relief that shook him. His words were no longer his own, sliding through the trap of his teeth without the slightest struggle.

“Then I can assume others in the Order know…?”

Garak bit his tongue in desperation.

“Do others in the Order know?”

“Yes.”

In Garak’s youth, Tain had taken him out for the day only once. Oh, there had been walks through the market, memorizing every detail and late-night games of _kotra_ in which Tain insisted he learn all 144 of Ulan’s Maneuvers on pain of a stint in the closet. But those were business. Tests, and Garak knew it.

This one day had been different: this had been for...fun, he supposed, although the word didn’t exactly sit happily in a sentence close to Tain. They’d taken Tain’s own skimmer out to the Vrainit Lowlands to have his first hound ride. Garak had never been near the beasts let alone ridden one, and the hound Tain selected was thrice the size appropriate for the small boy his son was turning out to be. When they’d first placed him in the saddle, he’d gripped it between his legs with all his might, determined not to fall.

But of course he had. Over and over. After the fifth time the hound unseated him, Tain suggested they rest. _Enough, Elim. Step away. Let the beast breathe._ But Garak persisted, climbing up once more, digging his heels between the animal’s ribs, fingers tangling, stubborn, in wiry fur.

The sixth time was the same. And the tenth. His legs shivered and burned, quaking with enough force to startle the poor thing. By the twelfth time, his muscles refused even the strength necessary to mount, threatening collapse.

That’s how he felt now. Try as he might, quivering with effort, he simply couldn’t keep in the saddle of his mind.

 _Take the conversation back, then._ He might not be a hound rider, but he knew how to direct the human’s reins well enough.

“You hardly needed to drug me to deduce _that_ , Doctor. Do you truly think Central Command would release a known augment from Kaltak? I doubt you’d ever see the light of day again, to be frank.”

“Does Starfleet know about my augmentation?”

Though he tried to clamp down his legs, he felt the saddle slip from under him once more. “No.”

Bashir’s face was turned toward the brightness of the open window, bronze skin alight, clearly lost.

“Information is power, Doctor. A lesson your ‘spy novels’ might have taught you. You don’t squander a secret like yours in some tiny squabble about illegal detainment. You _use_ it. As blackmail. As a bargaining chip.” Garak grinned. “I always did love seeing those smug Federation diplomats panic when we threw a secret like that down on the table. How do you think Cardassia won such concessions in the DMZ in the first place?”

Oh so close to being a lie, yet…how had the doctor put it? _True enough_.

 “I hate to shatter your illusions, Doctor, but the Federation trades in secrets the same as everyone else.”

Bashir returned from wherever his thoughts had been. His eyes locked with Garak’s, and Garak knew with cold certainty what was coming next.

“If I walked out the front door right now, would anything explode?”

“No.”

And there it was. Game over. His Capitol taken.

Garak had had many opportunities over the years to contemplate his own death. Odds had laid it fairly evenly on a situation like this. He wondered, in an absurd, manic way, how the doctor would do it. There were any number of implements around the room that would suffice, but perhaps the human would prefer the old-fashioned way: hands at the throat. A twist of the neck.

_Perhaps he’ll be kind and give me a little more of that sedative._

He closed his eyes, searching. What was the last thing he wanted to see? Palandine? Parmak? The orchid house? Mila? Everything seemed too mawkish, too theatrical. _You really should have prepared better for this, Elim._ Too much thought about the how and not enough about the when.

But nothing came.

When he finally opened his eyes, the doctor had turned back to the window.

Why hadn’t he moved? Why were they still sitting here as if everything hadn’t tilted unequivocally in the human’s favor?

Perhaps he had a few moves left in this game after all.

“That little display of affection this morning was certainly a masterful ruse, so I can only assume you’ve thought through your next moves just as thoroughly. I feel it’s only fair to warn you, however, that all docking facilities, public and private, as well as all ships and transporters of Cardassian make are equipped with compulsory DNA scanners. As a detainee of Central Command your DNA is on file. Any attempt to make it off-planet will not go unnoticed.”

The human’s body was as taut as a bowstring, and he shifted ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. _Doubt._ The boy was having second thoughts.

“Have you considered what you’ll do about Loral? I understand that leaving her free would be an unacceptable risk, but I do hope you consider her infirmity and her grandchildren in whatever action you take…?”

No response. _Come now, Doctor. What are you planning?_

“I might also advise that if it seems the military is poised to retake you, you consider…other options. They have a tendency to inflict _lasting_ damage on escapees.”

When Bashir finally spoke, his voice was all forced evenness. “And if I stay here, will the Central Command send me home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you _think_ the Central Command will send me home?”

 “No.”

“Will you allow them to take me back to Kaltak, when the time comes?”

“No.”

Bashir turned, surprised.

 _You’re not the only one, Doctor._ That was not the answer he’d expected to give. He swallowed, searching for a way to explain that bald revelation. “I don’t answer to the military.”

“Ahh. So when the Order comes to collect me, you _will_ hand me over, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

A flood of relief. He wouldn’t be swayed from his duty by a pair of lovely eyes and a kiss.

 _Careful, lis’sea. You came_ awfully _close._

“And if the decision is yours: will you send me home?”

For the first time since the questions had begun, he didn’t need the drug to force the answer from him. “Yes.”

The hard lines around the human’s mouth softened.

“I _have_ recommended it. I’ve been working towards it as best I can. I told you, Doctor: I owe you a debt. I don’t take that lightly.”

“Why?”

A sensation alerted him—the barest hint of air along the patch of scales at his elbow. Were they close to an hour? Had the doctor overestimated?

Yes, he could feel both arms now, the weight of the chair beneath them _._ No movement yet, but a promising tingle in his heel hinted at the possibility of soon.

 _Keep talking, Elim._ _It’s what you do best._ “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question, Doctor.”

Bashir crossed to stand in front of him again, leaning on the bookshelves. Garak didn’t miss his eyes flitting towards the door, torn.

Why was he doing this? Why didn’t he _leave?_

“When you brought me here, you wouldn’t have given a second thought to turning that CPP on and never deactivating it. Why… send me home?”

_Oh, my young human friend, do not begin probing such sensitive areas with such blunt questions._

“I told you—“

“A debt. Forgive me, Inquisitor—”

“Really, should _you_ be calling _me_ that given our current situation?”

“Do you have feelings for me, Garak?”

“Yes.”

Three hells, the boy had sprung that on him with skill.

“Yes?”

“Oh, yes. Right now I’d say rage and loathing would be at the top of the list.”

“I meant… _romantic_ feelings.”

A toe wriggled.

“Because I’m afraid that, for some reason, I seem to have them for you.”

The room froze, captured in the amber of sunlight and the tender honesty of the human’s words.

The man wasn’t going to kill him. Garak wasn’t even sure if he intended to follow through on his escape. Instead he was…what? Talking about _feelings_?

“This morning…last night…it wasn’t a ruse. It was…mad. I don’t particularly know how to explain it except that I…very much enjoy your company. God, I’ve even started looking forward to our dinners, did you know that?”

“No.” _Damn._ That hadn’t even been a real question.

“Do you have romantic feelings for me, Mister Garak?”

His mind thought _it’s just Garak, plain and simple,_ but his mouth said, “Yes.”

_Plain and simple._

This wasn’t how things were done on Cardassia. Such naked words were flagrant, obscene in their candor. Declarations lived in subtext, folded delicately into the underside of conversation and argument. Such unequivocal sentiment pained him far more than any amount of paralytic or psychoactive drug.

Truth could be the worst kind of torture.

“I know you Cardassians don’t do much of it but did you…enjoy the kiss?”

“Yes.”

Every inch of him willed his muscles to wakefulness.

“Garak…I did too. Quite a bit. I want to do it again, even. For better or worse, I’m afraid I want… _you_.”

To Garak’s shame—and his unwillingly honest joy—a fierce hiss unrolled from within.

“Do you feel the same?”

“Yes.”

The last sibilant was lost in a hiss that inflated, filling the room as he broke his invisible bonds. Muscles stiff and uncoordinated, he threw himself from the chair and into the human’s thin form with all his might.

Though he braced for a struggle, none came. Bashir merely submitted, allowing himself to be pushed full force into the bookshelves, arms pinioned. From above, several volumes rained down, dust and paper aflutter.

His mind had already played through a dozen scenarios. Breaking the neck was easy, but Tain wouldn’t be pleased to hear he’d squandered four weeks on an impulse. Breaking an arm or leg certainly wasn’t out of the question and the snap of bone might be gratifying, but it wasn’t guaranteed to incapacitate. The CPP was an option—had always been an option. The activator rested, as always, in his pocket. Available. Accessible. It would end in a second. _Take it, Elim. End this._

Why hadn’t the doctor just _left_ while he had the chance? Why hadn’t he killed him and escaped and let this play out as it should?

_Take it, you fool._

The human was working to school his features to stillness. Garak could see the frantic flicker of the other’s man’s pulse at his throat, but, though fear floated through those brown eyes, they didn’t look away. They searched Garak’s face, refused to be cowed. No pleading; no rage. Only simple insistence.

_Plain and simple._

“Garak, I meant what I said. I don’t want to hurt you. And I—I don’t think you want to hurt me, either.”

Gods they were so close. Two bodies. The walls. _Trapped._ Trapped under the remembered slide of human tongue through his mouth, velvet-hot.

_Take it. You. Fool._

Garak’s grip loosened, so caught up in his battle with himself that he could no longer fight on two fronts. “Why didn’t you just…go?”

Bashir might have grabbed for a weapon or made some counterstrike, but, strong and soft, he put the flat heat of his palm to Garak’s chest, fingertip resting lightly on his collarbone. “I…don’t know.”

This kiss was different. Where the first had been sudden and impetuous, tasting of kanar and human salt, this one was near timid. Bashir’s lips skimmed his with a question: _is this…what you want?_

Garak strained to hear, but no guiding voices came. Mila and her moralizing were gone; even Tain had no disappointed rebukes.  All he heard was the frail sound of the human’s breath, so close he could scent it, a delicious stripe of musk dripping down his palate.

He had no words, so lips answered for him, pressing forward, claiming the kiss. _Yes. Yes, for once this is what I want._

His hand found bare throat, vulnerable and golden and beautiful. How many times had he let his eyes slide across it wishing his fingers could do the same? Warm and pulsing, he kept one hand nestled in that hollow as he leaned in and erased the timidity of the kiss, plunging into Bashir’s mouth with an intensity that earned him a surprised moan. A small sound, but it shot through him, all electricity, bolts of lust that pushed him forward, further, closer. He pressed, pinning Bashir totally to the hard shelves behind. The hiss from his chest thundered.

More shocks as the human’s hands travelled of their own accord. Gods and gettle, his touch was…smooth. Each movement was a hot, sliding thing, wrapped in Tholian silk, drawing a blazing trail first down the ridge of his neck and next along the curve of his waist. A firm hand came to rest in the small of his back and pulled their hips together, insistent, until Garak could feel the slight swell of the human’s arousal. _External genitalia. I had forgotten that._

He drank Bashir up like _golet_ , scent and taste and sound all sharpening the exquisite ache that built between his legs. The human was practically shivering, and Garak couldn’t resist the urge to bend down and nip at the expanse of skin that led to Bashir’s shoulder. It tasted of sweat and something animal. As teeth and lips worked delicate flesh, Bashir made a noise half-strangled in Garak’s hair. Clutching for balance, he reached out desperately, and human hands closed around solid contours of his hips. “Oh, God. _Garak._ ”

It was enough to shock him back to himself.

He’d never heard _that_ name whispered in such shuddering tones of need. _Elim_ or _p’rimit_ or, once or twice, _s’sava_. But never _Garak_. His family name. His mother’s name, by the State.

Incongruous, it shone a light, hard and unrelenting, on just how alien the man beneath his mouth truly was. Just how little he could possibly understand.

_Enough, Elim._

He jumped away as if Tain were standing beside him rather than calling back through the haze of memory.

_Step away. Let the beast breathe._

Seeing Bashir before him like this, hair disheveled and cheeks colored, was almost enough to make him tumble back into the embrace. The human’s lips were plump and red from their work, the fastening at the top of his tunic splayed open to reveal a hint of _solan_ beneath. He looked a bird, fast-beating and thin-boned, and an instinct within Garak said nothing so much as _pounce. Smother. Devour._

He closed his eyes.  _I’ll never be such a gosling to obey instinct but stand, as if man were author of himself._

His hands, shaking, tightened to fists at his sides. He was _more_ than this.

“Doctor Bashir.”

The coolness of the words affected the human instantly, color drained, lidded eyes bouncing open in alarm.

“If you would please return to your room.” He said _please_ as if it were a threat.

“I—Garak. If I—“

“ _Now._ ” This was familiar. This was as it should be.

He’d dialed it precisely: the tone and lilt of their first encounter across from each other. He forced himself to acknowledge the doctor’s reaction as it triggered the memory, as he realized how the ground had shifted beneath him.

“Before something… _unpleasant_ occurs.” The sleek black exterior of the CPP activator reflected the sunlight obscenely.

“You…won’t hurt me.” He didn’t sound as sure as he had just a moment before.

Thank the State he hadn’t made that a yes-or-no question because Garak was sure he was right.

“I wouldn’t put that to the test, Doctor.”

The open door should have been a relief, but, standing alone in the sunlight, his own heat lingering through every swollen scale, he felt more trapped than ever.

 

*****************************

The closet had always been dark, but somehow it was worse during the day when threads of light bordered the door, reminding him he was trapped—truly shut away from the open air of the world.  The scent of the _vrand_ root stored there pressed from behind, choking, close as the walls. He still couldn’t eat anything with _vrand_ —couldn’t stand to have it in the house.

 _Recite, s’olat_.

Mind mottled by panic, words scattered. He’d press a finger to the line of light on the floor, staring at the shadow of his fingertip, trying to remember.

_In the sudden storm of stars, the soldier stood, the—the—_

The words slipped, and he tumbled into their absence as if tripping down stairs.

_Not yet, then. Not until you’ve learned your lesson._

Silence.

He’d recite the words, frantic, at the silence, but it made no difference. Tain was gone. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. Sometimes Tain’s cook would find him later that evening in search of _vrand._

Whether the doctor sat at the door, Garak couldn’t say. But he had decided to follow Tain’s example. Silence.

There were no more dinners. Loral took the human’s meals to him, sure to listen for the _click-click-click_ of the door when she left. There were to be no words exchanged: the human had wormed his way into her good graces too far to trust even the blandest of pleasantries.

The dinner table had felt empty, but he’d become reacquainted with silence himself. Actually, most nights he skipped dinner altogether. He’d been eating more than necessary anyway, and he found that, suddenly, his appetite diminished. He was hungry for _work._

In fact, he’d been more productive in the last four days that in the prior four weeks. Slowly, shakily, the rhythm of life picked up again, regular. Comforting. Perhaps it lacked an engagement—a tempo change—that the human had provided. Perhaps, even, the melodies of work felt subdued, lulled by comparison.

 _Life is not for your pleasure, lis’sea,_ Mila had always said when he complained of boredom.

And so it was. He threw himself into Cardassia, and she, as always, welcomed his service.

Parmak sent a short message informing him that the first antiviral test had been a resounding success. Of the hundred infected patients receiving the treatment, ninety-four had recovered, including one who had already been moved somewhat prematurely from the hospital to the mortuary to free up a needed bed.

The end of the message had politely inquired as to the status of Doctor Bashir’s detainment.

Garak didn’t respond.

Meanwhile, _heriot’za_ vaccinations were progressing apace for all citizens _vajat_ class and above. While the antiviral was highly effective it was also highly expensive, and the government had made clear their preference for vaccination as a first line of defense. Garak lined up like all the rest.

Bashir had been right about the side effects.

It had taken a several hours to set in, but the chills came first. They brought back, in shuddering flashes he tried to ignore, the white fire of Tzenkethi snow. He’d gulped red leaf tea, but it made no more difference than a candle held against a roaring wind. He’d set up in the sun of the library, cocooning himself in thermal blankets and disabling the internal coolers entirely. The human would have to sweat.

Fever began to warp his mind. The words on the page shivered and danced until he’d abandoned his book. Memories sometimes etched themselves across the room, and after several hours, he heard himself, his voice his own but his body that of a child.

_In the sudden storm of stars the soldier stood and viewed the mighty hoard that should from forth the—_

Loral had interrupted him and asked, with unusual delicacy, if she should send for a doctor.

“I’ve had my fill of doctors. Bring me another cup of tea.”

Pain creaked through his joints. He remembered such aches from his Bamarren days, after a long session in the Pit. But he had been young then, his body—and mind—more fit for recovery. Now the ache locked him, trapped in his cocoon with only the memories.

_From forth the mouth of Vral itself devour the troop and break the sword_

 “ _S’sava_?”

He’d been reciting at the silence again.

“ _S’sava_ , I—I’ve brought Doctor Baa’chir.”

_No, not until he’s learned his lesson._

He looked at them through the fog. Loral’s face was hard. The human’s had the appearance of detachment, but doctorly concern was evident in the purse of those lips.

_Those lips. Beautiful lips._

“Loral, I was quite clear—“

“Forgive me, _s’sava_ , but I don’t have time to take your shri-tal _and_ soak the _val_. So I thought we might at least consult the doctor who was _sitting across the hall_.”

Garak glared, but she didn’t look away.

“You can feel free to dismiss me if you survive.” She picked up his empty tea cup from the side table and left without a glance behind.

 _Meddlesome woman._ “You can join her, Doctor.”

The human was wise enough to maintain the distance of the room between them. “Garak, I can see that you need medical attention, even from here. Your scales are turning white and your pupils—“

“The Medical Bureau anticipated side effects. You said so yourself. One in a hundred experience them. They’ll pass in the next forty-eight hours.”

“Unless you’re the one in nine hundred who experience the extreme response, in which case they may not pass at all without intervention.”

Damned doctors. They always buried the relevant bits in a pile of numbers.

“I have Parmak’s medkit. I could give you—“

“If you’re thinking about coming near me with a hypo, you must not value that long, pretty neck of yours.” The hiss that underlined the statement was one of threat and not arousal.

Bashir’s clipped tone told him that was understood. “At least allow me to perform a scan? Just to be certain there are no pulmonary reactions to worry about? Your respiratory rate seems--”

“Scan all you like, Doctor. From _there_. Any closer and it’s _your_ respiration that will…become a…concern.” The words petered out along with his breath.

Bashir’s eyebrow twitched with a subtle but clear _I told you so._ As he lifted the scanner up and down, brown eyes intent on whatever it was telling him, Garak felt his own gaze following up and down just the same. Four days, and he’d forgotten the eyes. And that mouth. And how his waist tipped in just above--

He looked away. This was precisely the problem. _Do try to remember the moment he pressed the paralyzing agent to your neck, you fool_. Silence. _Silence._

He closed his eyes, removing all temptation. It was dark save for the seam where darkness faded to red, a hint of light.

 _Recite, s’olat_.

“Garak, your temperature is almost 39 C: that’s at least four degrees warmer than the room. Your body won’t be able to maintain that type of differential.”

He started to open his eyes, but Tain’s voice froze him. _Not yet. Not until you’ve learned your lesson._

Breath came shallow and hot. _From forth the mouth of Vral itself devour the troops and break the sword of their attack._

“Garak.” More insistent. More concerned.

_‘Til all the hopes the soldier held to lay in rest and dream of—_

“Garak, I’m going to have to give you _something_ to stabilize your breathing or you’re going to—“

_Not yet. Not until he’s learned his lesson._

The thin thread of light guttered out altogether.

 

**************************

The dark was dreamless, and he woke feeling more well-rested than he had any right to. Pain no longer stiffened him, his breaths mercifully deep and full. Through the window beside him the Koirala Arrangement circled the moons like a crown.

_About time you woke up, p’rimit._

Her voice should have startled him, but somehow he’d known he’d find her there, leaning at the end of the couch, smile warm.

“I’d forgotten how lovely you were, Palandine _._ ”

_‘Were’, Elim? Do you think I’m dead?_

“If Tain had anything to say about it.”

 _Tain always has his say._ She sighed. _You’re probably right. I’d say it was worth it, though, wouldn’t you?_

“Nothing is worth that, _mata_. I should have known better from the start.”

 _Should have._ She turned her eyes tellingly to where Bashir sat across the room, asleep in a chair, padd in his lap. _Not your strength though, is it?_

“No…it’s my weakness, as you well knew.”

Something about the silence seemed cold and artificial, the forced beat of a mind in conversation with itself.

_A bit skinny, isn’t he?_

“Jealous, _mata_?”

_Of that stretch of sarnak vine? You must be joking._

Ancestors, he missed her. He hadn’t realized.

Her eyes softened. Green. Perfect.

_Pretty face, though. Do you love him?_

“I…don’t know _._ ”

_You used to be a better liar, Ten Lubak._

“It’s not a lie. It’s different.” He shook his head. “I know I can’t…but I can’t pull away either.”

 _Neither could he. That_ is _something, isn’t it?_

“I don’t trust him.”

 _Your perfect match._ Her laughter sounded in the hollow of his own chest. _You don’t have to trust someone to hold them, Elim. Look at us._

“Yes, look at us.”

For a moment he feared she might flutter back into unreality—back into the lockbox of memory—but when he caught her eyes, she seemed to steady.

_Promise me one thing, p’rimit._

“Promises are just lies on borrowed time, Palandine.”

 _Then_ lie _to me, Elim. Tell me you won’t let them kill him._

Beside them, the Koirala Arrangement twinkled, impassive.

 _Let this mistake_ mean _something._

And with those words she did fade, scattered by the thought.

 “I promise, _mata_ ,” he heard himself whisper, fading just the same.

***********************

Peace disappeared with the darkness. The room he woke to buzzed with sun, bright as a nightmare, with air that tasted of sweat and cold tea and something antiseptic. Too medical—too sterile to be a dream.

He cut his eyes to the end of the couch to be sure, though. No dead lovers. No oppressive closet doors. Just the usual lines of shelf and the lump of his own legs beneath thermal blankets.

And, across the room, the human, hunched over a padd.

As it often did upon waking, Order training snapped into place, leveling breath and thought, forcing him to step slowly through the situation. He was in the library. He had passed out. Bashir had been there. And Loral. Something about his breathing.

Certain to move only his eyes, he took in the room. A day had passed, maybe more. Only Bashir and him. The human looked tired, rumpled, as if he’d slept there, in the chair.

Weapons. There was always a disruptor tucked under the Romulan histories. He kept a small blade inside his right boot, but his boots had been removed and were nowhere in sight. In a pinch, the bust of Akleen on his desk was perfectly serviceable.

If, of course, he could move. He tested. Toes and fingers wiggled back, stiff but encouraging.

So the good doctor had forgone incapacitating him yet again. Classic Federation fool.

“I can tell you’re awake, Garak.”

_Almost as big a fool as you, Elim._

The doctor hadn’t looked up from his padd, voice thoroughly clinical. “How are you feeling?”

 _Confused. Pathetic. Helpless._ The words floated past, and he watched them with disgust, running his dry tongue through his mouth. It tasted of stagnant breath.

“Thirsty.”

“I’d get you a glass of water, but I suspect—”

“You suspect right, Doctor.”

The human remained turned away in every sense.  “Parmak will be back soon. I’m sure he’ll bring you one.”

“You called Parmak?”

“You almost went into respiratory shock, Garak. I needed to be sure I hadn’t done anything that would—I’m still no expert in Caradassian biochemistry.”

Garak’s first instinct was one of cautious relief. If anyone were to be standing over his unconscious body, he could hardly ask for a more harmless soul than Kelas Parmak. Even if Bashir had been tempted to do something _less_ harmless, Kelas would never allow it. That was the man’s nature.

But, upon further thought, the image of the two doctors standing over his splayed and insensate body —examining him, _discussing_ him as if at his _drekking_ funeral—made his blood run cold.

 _An undignified end,_ Bashir might say with at least a shallow attempt at grief. Parmak would nod his head wisely. _Yes, as he brought so many to theirs._

He swallowed the thought. “Well, it was good of him to check in and be sure you hadn’t stabbed me and stolen away with state secrets.”

“Stabbed you?! If I’d wanted to _stab_ you—”

“Oh, yes. Not your style. You prefer _drugging_.”

The human twisted in his seat, padd clattering on the table beside him. “I just saved your life, you ungrateful arse!”

Even now some part of Garak enjoyed the doctor in anger. Like stirring a nest of blue-backed stingers and watching the frenzied bob-and-weave of their swarm. Dangerous, perhaps, if you got too close. But mesmerizing.

He poked the hive again. “Your bedside manner could use improving, Doctor.” 

Bashir threw his hands up in disbelief. “Honestly! You’re just…Parmak was right. You’re an infuriatingly melodramatic UNKNOWN _-feminine_.”

Garak had already shaped a rejoinder, but the chiming monotone of the UT’s failure gave him pause.  He watched the human’s mouth closely. “Pardon me, Doctor? Was that an…attempt at Cardasi?”

Bashir’s lips set in a peeved line. “Yes. UNKNOWN _-feminine_.”

 “You might try making that third syllable more dental, Doctor.”

 “ _Umad’ila_.”

A laugh escaped. It clashed terribly with everything in the room. “Better. If you’re going to insult me, do at least try to enunciate.”

The human’s cheeks reddened, whether from embarrassment or anger, Garak couldn’t be sure. Either way, it caused an absurd rush of heat as it touched the memory. The other man, pressed to those bookshelves, all pink and red and shivering…

“That’s how Parmak said it. I remember.”

“Certain accents in Cardassia City swap the intervocalic /d/ for lazier sounds than the official dialect of the UT. Kelas is often guilty, I’m afraid.” He smoothed at the blanket in his lap. “As for the insult itself…it will be far more scathing when you get it right the first time.”

It made no sense, of course, to be picking at one another like this. Here, in this room where so much had passed between them. Threat and torment. Truth and touch. The air groaned with it, weighted with sunlight and the unspoken.

But somehow, under that weight, this was the easiest ground to stand on. So he planted his feet.

“I wasn’t aware that Doctor Parmak had been teaching you Cardasi.”

“He hasn’t. The word…came up in conversation.”

“Oh, I can imagine. The number of times I’ve heard it hissed at me as he stormed from the room…it’s practically a pet name _._ ”

“I should find one of my own, then. Don’t want to dull the edge of Parmak’s.”

“‘Ungrateful arse’, perhaps?”

“It has a ring to it.”

“Hmm. I think I preferred your mangled Cardasi.”

“And I think I preferred you sleeping.”

The ache he felt had nothing to do with his joints. Usually, this—their odd brand of _sita—_ was tight and alluring and warm, but here, in this moment, it clashed, discordant as a wrong-struck note. Even this had buckled under the weight.

The look in Bashir’s eyes said he felt the same.

“There are two things I need to say before you send me back to my cell, Inquisitor.”

This pet name, unexpectedly, hurt. Far worse than any casual swear of Parmak’s. _What did you expect, Elim? P’rimit?_ Ancestors, he’d gotten softer than _regova_ -down.

“Go ahead, Doctor.”

“First, don’t sack Loral. _Please_.”

Garak had long prided himself on his ability to cow men with a look. He knew well how to arrange his features in a way that reflected an untold future of pain—in a way that spoke of nothing but cold suffering. He’d watched even the most fortified defenses waver and fall beneath it.

 He wondered if the doctor knew he had the same power in contrast, not frightening but forthright, built from the steel of sincerity and conviction and honey-gold eyes.

A different but no less effective type of persuasion. _Especially on you, you old fool._

“If Loral hadn’t released me when she did…well, we might not be having this conversation. And, I have to say, she seriously considered letting you die rather than disobeying.”

Garak knew he should let the woman go without hesitation. He had given her a directive: she had ignored it. Dissent of any sort from those in your employ could not be tolerated. An inexcusable vulnerability.

But it was hard to argue with being alive. And, besides, if he let her go, what would happen to the children? How could they hope for anything better than the orphanage in a few years’ time?

That shouldn’t change the calculus, but it did.

He sighed. Inexcusable vulnerability seemed to be the way of things these days. “I’ll consider it. And the second?”

Bashir drew in a long breath and looked away as if searching for the strength to continue. “I’ve been thinking about…everything. I’ve had a lot of time to think.” Pointed, accusatory but not harsh. “I just wanted to say that…I’m sorry about what happened. It’s possible—”

“Doctor, are you _apologizing_ to me?”

He had braced for something entirely different. This—this was far more irritating.

“I…I suppose I am. In a way.”

“You’re still going back to your room.”

“I understand.”

How annoyingly… _virtuous_.

“Doctor, as much as I appreciate this sanctimonious act of yours, what happened wasn’t _your_ fault. It was _mine_. For… _this_.” He moved his hands vaguely between them. “For giving you freedom of the house. For allowing—no for _encouraging_ you to question me. For taking you out into the _drekking_ City!”

“You mean for being _kind_?”

“Kindness is _weakness_. I forgot that, and you took advantage. That’s not something you apologize for. That’s—”

“No, Garak. It’s not something _you_ apologize for. It is _very much_ something _I_ apologize for.”

A growl of frustration. “Romantic nonsense, Doctor. Cardassia is your prison. You should have killed me and escaped.”

“Are you _actually_ arguing that I should have _killed_ you? I mean—”

Bashir stopped and, though his eyes met Garak’s, his gaze was turned utterly inward.

Garak recognized it. The _gailurra_ they called it in the Order _._ _The edge._ The point during any interrogation when a detainee stilled, looked out over the edge of his situation, and decided to jump—to give up whatever had silenced him and speak the truth. A moment of triumph for any interrogator.

Somehow, he wasn’t sure this would feel like victory.

Bashir stood at his _gailurra_. Garak watched him step off.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t planned to do…that. I stowed the compounds as best I could. I couldn’t get much for a paralytic: Parmak was watching too closely. And then you took half of what I had. I…I knew if I ran, you’d be right behind me. That there wouldn’t be enough distance between us. I—I intended to get what I needed, find out about the explosives, and...”

_If he’s the one who stepped over the edge, why do I feel like I’m falling?_

“But I couldn’t kill you, Garak. I couldn’t even bring myself to… _incapacitate_ you. Stupid. Naïve. Romantic. I don’t know. But I _couldn’t_. And I couldn’t even—” He paused. _Oh dear, this appears even more difficult for him to say._ “I couldn’t even just _let you die_. That—that should have been easier, but…” Bashir ran his hands across his face. “Terran doctors have a guiding principle—an ancient one. _Primum non nocere: ‘_ first, do no harm.’ Those words…they’re almost sacred to me, not just as a doctor but as a human being. And I…I don’t want this situation to change that.”

Every instinct in Garak recoiled; every voice that guided him groaned. _Do no harm_. Garak could think of nothing that separated the two of them more than such a maxim. High-minded Federation arrogance, to think you could drive through the realities of life never dirtying your hands. _Someone_ had to dirty their hands. Harm was as much as part of life as healing.

_Perhaps, you fool, that’s why the two of you can’t seem to pull apart._

He tried to navigate back to his training, back to deep breaths and ordered thoughts. But it was no use. He was lost to those damned sucking sands. Lost with a man who had fully planned to kill him.

“I suppose what I’m saying is, I couldn’t hurt you, Garak. Even though you had it coming. _More_ than coming.” Sunlight glazed his small, pained smile. “I’m _sure_ I’ll regret it, but that’s just… _me_.”

Yes, that was him. The human _was_ kindness, all the way down to his center, and somehow, though it opposed everything Garak knew to be true, he couldn’t take advantage of that weakness either. Why not?

 _Because in him it_ isn’t _weak,Elim_.

Bashir had chosen to stay. Whether from fear or sentiment or some ridiculous sense of honor, Garak wasn’t sure, but it was a terrible gamble nonetheless—one that could easily cost him his life. And, while Garak might scoff, such breathless kindness certainly didn’t feel brittle or naïve or weak.

No, he looked into those eyes, brimming brown and green, and saw the filtered light of the orchid house. Delicate _strength_. It bloomed, and he wanted nothing more than to tend to it. To urge it to _grow_.

But, as he’d reminded the doctor, he was no gardener, not really. His was not the business of tending or growing. This wasn’t the orchid house, and that wasn’t the way of things.

_Life is not for your pleasure, lis’sea._

“Doctor, I—”

A shrill chirrup cut across him.

Grateful for the natural break, he forced himself to stand. Muscles and joints ached. As did the look in the young doctor’s face.

“I’ll need to get that, Doctor. You should return to your room.”

He did his best to mask how difficult it was to turn his attention to the nearest padd. To not watch the other man as he rose to leave. To not say more.

The remote linkup showed one message. The cold green letters of its mainline stared up, stark.

_Re: CC detainee 462, Starfleet, JBashir._

Limbs sapped of what little strength they had, he sank back to the couch.

“Garak? Are you--?”

Something in the silence—in the tense, shivering quality of it—told Bashir exactly what was happening.

Sunlight and fear poured into the space between them.

He forced himself through each word as if it were something else. Something distant. Some enigma tale or broadsheet or briefing report. His mind was cold, Order-trained, focused, but his heart—that traitorous heart—lurched and sped.

The padd fluttered back to his lap of its own accord.

“So what is it, then?” Bashir’s words wavered, struggling against the silence. “What do they have in store for me?”

Garak’s voice was steady: he’d had years of practice with such pronouncements. “I’ve been ordered to remand you to Gul Karik of the _Ghezur_ this time tomorrow at Zara’za shuttleport. The _Ghezur_ , along with two escort ships, will rendezvous with the _USS Defiant_ and a Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax, who will exchange you for Legate Timet Morel—one of Starfleet’s last remaining prisoners from the Border Wars.”

He offered the padd across for the young doctor’s inspection.

Bashir’s eyes moved over it, but Garak could tell he wasn’t reading, just staring, shock and alarm and hope all written in a muddle across his face.

Garak wrapped his own shock up tight and tucked it away behind a healthy amount of artificial poise.

“I—I can’t believe this.” He fell back into his seat.

“It would appear, Doctor, that you are going home.”

“No, I mean, I _don’t_ believe this. I don’t…trust it.”

“How unexpectedly wise. Perhaps you’ve learned something during your time on Cardassia after all.” The smile felt forced, tight, but he knew it was needed. “I should add, however, that the Central Command has been trying to negotiate for the release of Legate Morel for quite some time. His family is an influential one here in the City. It’s entirely possible that this is…genuine.”

There was no need to tell him more. No need to tell him that this—the exchange for Morel—had been his proposal. That he had practically written a script for Command’s negotiators. That he had an open monitoring sub-routine on several communication relays for the sole purpose of keeping updated on the progress of the discussions.

No, the outcome was what mattered. There’d been no further directives from Tain, and, if he was right, there wouldn’t be any, at least for a time. Central Command had followed the path he laid at their feet precisely.

And, it seemed, that path ended at Zara’za shuttleport. Tomorrow. _Tomorrow._

The short, stuttering sob startled him as much as it did Bashir. The doctor wiped at his face, apologizing and trying to stem the tide, but though it quieted, the human’s shoulders still shook with the force of it. The release. “I—I’m sorry—”

Garak didn’t cry. Garak never did. But he understood the tears, their source: he could feel it, distantly, in himself. A dammed-up reservoir of anger and fear and confusion and relief.

And there—on the brink of tomorrow—he let himself touch it. Skim its surface. Think what he had been avoiding for days.

_I will miss you when you’re gone._

He didn’t know what this was. Or what it had been. Certainly not what it had become. But he did know he would miss it. And that this—whatever had stacked up between them—wasn’t the way he wanted it to end.

It couldn’t be open. It couldn’t be romantic. But it could be…better. He could try to make it better.

He sighed. “And you say _I’m_ the melodramatic _umad’ila_.”

A rough chuckle shook the human’s thin chest, mixed with a half-sob.

“ ‘ _Umad’ila’…_ Such language, Doctor. Unbecoming a young man of your intellect.” _Come on, Doctor._ He held the lightness of _sita_ out, praying the human would take it.

The tears stopped, and Bashir met his eyes, looking absurdly grateful.

Now it felt right. Now it landed, warm, in the center of his chest.

“If you wanted to learn Cardasi you might have tried something less offensive. Something practical. _Karis’ka_ for example.”

Bashir stilled.

So he did know what that meant. _Thank you._

“Or _barra’sun_.”     

_I’m sorry._

“Those are phrases I find need saying far more often.”

It wasn’t open. It wasn’t romantic. But it was…better.

 For several long, sunny moments, neither of them seemed to have any words left. It was not the silence of the closet, though: not the silence that haunted him when he closed his eyes. This was its inverse: not darkness ringed in light, but light keeping the dark at bay.

Bashir leaned in and set an uncertain hand on his, smooth skin on scale. “ _Us’set ha’vriden ghers’sinet kolen_.”

Garak reached up, from habit, to adjust his UT before realizing that the words had rung through in Bashir’s own voice, unaffected by the thin tin of the translation filter. The sound of that line in the human’s voice—unfiltered and whispered and perfect—stunned him, hit him with as much force as any hypo to the neck.

“Or did I mispronounce that as well?”

It was his turn to chuckle. _Impertinent boy_. “No, my dear. That was…impeccable.”

“Like I said, I’ve had a lot of time.”

“And you’ve taken to reading _Odes…_ in Cardasi?”

“I read the Standard first. The Cardasi has been harrowing, but…that line. _That_ was clear. I read it and re-read it and couldn’t escape it. ‘The only way we touch is to forget.’ A perfect description of whatever _this_...” It was good to know the human had just as much trouble finding the words.

Those beautiful eyes swept through his, caught him, thoroughly and completely.

“I don’t want to spend my last night here locked in my room wishing I was the kind of man who could have killed you. I…I want to _forget._ ”

Looking back on it, Garak knew without a doubt: this was the moment. This was his _gailurra_.  

He hoped the human enjoyed it, being the one to break him.

“I suppose you want me to tell you how terribly clever you are.”

Bashir pulled his hand away, smirking. “Oh maybe not _so_ clever. Just clever enough to impress _you_.”

“Oh, you think I’m impressed? By a pretty face parroting Kavit like some garish _koia_ bird?”

“As impressed as I am by a middle-aged lizard with hair as wild as a _caraka_ bush.”

A half-hiss betrayed him.

They watched one another, loving yet remote, as if already looking at a fond memory.

The human _was_ clever. And beautiful. And naïve and ridiculous. And he was going to _miss_ him.

“Doctor, I wonder if you might consider joining me for dinner tonight?”

Surprise covered over quickly by a crooked grin. “Who’s thinking with his stomach _now_?”

“Do you think it’s my _stomach_ I’m thinking with?”

He was rewarded with a blush. A smile. As always, it was perfect. Oh yes. Perhaps they could _forget…_

“Dinner would be lovely, Garak. _Karis’ka_.”

He found that, suddenly, for the first time in days, his appetite had returned with a vengeance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, well I suppose I'm just going to have to begin every author's note with an apology for tardiness. January was a rough month, both for writing and for living, but I've come out the other side with a chapter at least. As always, I am grateful for the patience of anyone who still even remembers that this fic exists.
> 
> I am probably more nervous about this chapter than any thus far(and any to come) as I know it heads in a direction...contrary to expectations :) Hopefully it is still enjoyable and enticing enough that you will stick with me for a few more. 
> 
> A quick note on the bit with Palandine: given that in this AU Garak was never exiled, I am assuming that whatever went down between them, Garak must have made some tougher, less sentimental choices about their affair (and that Tain took care of the loose ends himself...or at least that's what Garak suspects). 
> 
> As always, the incomparable [Lilith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith/pseuds/Lilith) betaed this with a skill and delicacy that helped me not feel _completely_ terrified to publish it. I am so very, very lucky to have their guiding hand!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented and kudosed thus far! Please do continue to do so if you feel moved...all comments are welcomed and cherished. It really means a lot to know that some people are still around despite my just crazily inconsistent publishing schedule. 
> 
> And, of course, I'm on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8) as well. Feel free to say hi! :D


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

The door chime startled him.

Since his arrival on Cardassia, no one had bothered with the chime. Doors locked and unlocked; people came and went. No one felt any need to announce themselves. Why ring the bell of a cage, after all?

But the strangeness of the sound shook the realization loose: this sad reality had become so _natural_. No more than a month and he’d come to think of it as _his_ chair. _His_ bed. In the washroom, toiletries accommodated the well-worn curves of _his_ routine.

In his mind, this locked space bore the unthinking label of _my room_.

Was it a good thing that he’d forgotten? Or simply another symptom of how lost he’d become?

_The only way we touch is to forget_ , he’d found himself declaiming in Cardasi. 

For tonight—his _last_ night—perhaps he’d try to find it comforting.

The chime came again.

“Come in…?”

Most evenings Loral entered bearing a tray and pointedly _not_ speaking, all business. But tonight she seemed as foreign as the door chime, her movements measured, her expression almost warm.

It took him a moment to understand: Garak hadn’t sacked her. 

He allowed himself a small feeling of victory. _Perhaps there’s hope for him yet._

“Good evening, Doctor Baa’chir.”

 “Good evening, Loral. I’m…glad to see you.”

Julian wasn’t sure if this act of good will surprised him or not. To be fair, he wasn’t sure about _much_ at this point, so he simply added it to the tangle of confused and conflicting thoughts he’d been turning over the last few hours. Another layer of questions without answers.

“Garak _S’sava_ has asked that you please join him for dinner.”

_Dinner._

Julian turned back to the window, looking out at the sun as it set over Cardassia City. He enjoyed the view this time of day: families filing home, lights beginning to flicker on into the distance.  There was something to the sleepiness of a city folding into night—everyone drifting to rest—that soothed him.  It was a sight and a rhythm one forgot after so many years with the same unblinking view of stars outside, constant as wallpaper. This cage, at least, had a pleasant view.

_A comfortable prison is still a prison,_ he’d averred once, in that bright room.

He heard the chuckle again, this time from himself. _What a meaningless observation._

His hand tightened on the padd in his lap.

Parmak had brought it earlier in the day. With the distraction of Garak’s illness, they hadn’t yet had an opportunity to fully discuss the antiviral trial in Assam. Parmak had travelled there to oversee it and, while he led Julian through official numbers and plans, he mostly delighted in telling stories of families recovering. Of homes and towns returning to life. He’d included several letters from the Assami to the Medical Bureau and, as Julian read them, warm certainty rushed into the vacuum of his chest. The certainty of having done _good._ Of having been _right_.  It pulled at that tangle inside—connected it to some larger, less-messy whole.

Parmak seemed to understand. “There was a young woman in the first trial group—Neska. She was studying at the local artisan’s collective and was so delighted to have enough strength to carve again--demanded her tools before she’d even touch a bowl of stew.” A fond smile. “I took her vitals each day, and, when we chatted, I told her about you and what you had done for Cardassia. The last day I was there, she asked me to give you this as a token of her gratitude.”

The package was small, wrapped in gauze and tied up with a length of lace from bodice or shoe. “There wasn’t much in the way of wrapping. Don’t worry, it’s been through decontamination at least ten times now.”

Julian pulled the lace, and the gauze parted to reveal a Starfleet delta so deftly carved it looked for all the world like a combadge of bone-white. The blurred outline of his face stared back from its well-polished surface.

 “She remembered it from a school book, she said. One of the pictures with Starfleet officers.” Parmak laid a hand on Julian’s arm, affection bright in dark eyes. “You see, Bashir, you’ve made a difference here. The government may not speak of it, but those people—that generation, they will _remember_.”

He hadn’t been able to hold back, though he knew it wasn’t a Cardassian custom. He’d hugged Parmak with all his might. “Parmak, my friend, you are too good for this place.”

“So Garak tells me, although I’m not sure he means it as a compliment,” he chuckled. “I wish you the best, Bashir. I do hope our paths cross again.”

It wasn’t until well after Parmak left that Julian found the second set of documents on the padd. They had been hastily run through the translation matrix but, even so, it took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.

A series of communications between a Legate—some sort of diplomat? —and one Elim Garak. In them Garak convinced the other man to appease the Morel family and Starfleet by agreeing to a prisoner exchange. Outlined in the latest messages were several arguments Garak thought might be particularly effective in communications with the Federation as well as some subtle hints that the Morel family would be willing to compensate the Legate personally.

Julian had sat at the window, holding the padd in one hand and the carving in the other ever since, watching Cardassian families file home through the tallow of evening.

Garak really _had_ been trying to get him home. That was the truth—and Parmak, for reasons Julian couldn’t fully understand—wanted him to know it.

Cardassia had surprised him today. Garak had surprised him. Dinner would likely be more of the same.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about surprises these days.

“Thank you, Loral.”

“I’m afraid _S’sava_ still isn’t feeling up to dinner in the dining room but asks if you would join him in the library…? I can bring the meal to you there.”

Julian frowned. Garak should be recovered—certainly recovered enough to take a single flight of stairs. The last scan had been almost completely normal. Perhaps he’d dare Garak’s disapproval and perform another. “I’ll be over shortly. I’m just going to wash up.”

Loral nodded but didn’t move. It was unlike her to dither.

“Is there…something…?”

“Doctor, _s’sava_ , I…” She stepped forward and, though stern lines webbed the ridges of her brow, the hand she set on the back of the chair was kind, bridging the last few centimeters of uncomfortable space with grace. “Doctor, I’m afraid that my behavior when you arrived was…inexcusable. I allowed my own hardships to blind me to yours, and I do hope you’ll forgive any harsh words between us.” Each phrase was tapped cleanly: she’d been preparing the statement for some time. “And I know… you’re the reason _S’sava_ didn’t…”

“No, Loral. _You’re_ the reason. You saved his life just as much as I did. I merely reminded him of that.”

Her eyes crinkled, and hardness cracked into a smile. “Thank you, Baa’chir.” She held up a hand, palm outward.

He took a moment to marvel at the distance they’d closed to bring them to this, palms pressed together.

_Perhaps there’s hope for all of us yet._ “Garak is lucky to have you, Loral.”

“And you, Baa’chir.”

She gave a little nod and walked out the door.

No _click-click-click_ followed, cage door flung open for one last night.

********************

Garak was still on the couch, but the thermal blankets were gone, and he’d clearly washed and groomed, hair returned to its neat arrangement. In fact, the whole room now had an arranged feel, stale scents of convalescence traded out for the lusher aromas of paper and liquor and oiled wood. A table had been pulled between couch and chair, empty of food but already set with two full _civit_ glasses. Brassy lamplight gathered in pools along the floor, and, through the thrown-wide shutters of the window, the first shy stars had begun to unfurl from beneath the sunken red of sun.

Julian had seen this sort of arrangement before. Arranged it himself a few times, certainly. Everything about it screamed _intimate_.

No, not screamed. Whispered. Tastefully. In well-crafted, immaculate verse.

If the décor left any doubt as to the nature of the arrangement, Garak’s eyes removed it. As Julian entered, they lit with obvious pleasure.

And Julian faltered.

Those eyes had caught him then, too, and they dragged him back again, spiraling through the memory as helpless as if he were the one paralyzed in that chair.

He’d met those eyes in what should have been triumph. Just like this, he’d looked down into them and _imagined_ what needed to be done.

Hardly the first time he’d imagined the killing blow, of course. He’d rehearsed it in his mind for weeks-- clinical, matter-of-fact, first-then-next. He’d long decided the bust on the desk was his best option. _It really might not be fatal_ , he’d reassured himself. The Cardassian skull was 37.5% thicker at the base. _It might only incapacitate…_

But it had been different, imagining it with those eyes on him. The abstract shape of the plan had hardened into a weapon in his hand—a weapon he couldn’t seem to draw.

Everything changed with those eyes on him, it seemed. The realization rankled, but he saw no point in trying to deny it anymore.

“Having trouble ‘forgetting’, Doctor?”

Of course he knew. Garak read him as easily as any book on the shelves.

“It’s a bit harder than Kavit made it sound, yes. But…I’m trying.”

He’d spent the afternoon _trying_. Trying not to worry about tomorrow. Trying not to imagine what the Order would do with his secret. Trying not to regret his decisions—all of them.

All that trying coiled tight inside, difficult to ignore.

“A mind like yours is not designed to forget.” Garak pushed one of the _civit_ glasses towards him. “Perhaps this might help…?”

Julian took it all in a fiery, desperate gulp.

They stared at the empty glass for a time. A sliver of pale light dusted its rim in rose-gold.

“Doctor…I do hope you’ll feel free to say whatever is clearly on your mind…?” Obvious pleasure had cooled to wariness.

“I…” No. _Come at is sideways._ Sideways was how the other man conversed. “You arranged the exchange. For Morel.”

 “I suggested it, yes. It seemed the best option for all parties.”

“For _all_ parties…including the Order…?”

“The Order has issued no further directives in your case, either to me or Central Command.”

A vague answer. The coil tightened.

He reached across the table and took the second glass of _civit_. It burned wonderfully.

 “I…had thought it would please you.”

“It does. I mean…it _does_ ,” he insisted after the _civit_ finished razing his esophagus. “I’m just…waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Shoe?”

“An idiom. You know, waiting for the inevitable bad thing to come.”

“Not your usual chipper optimism, Doctor.” He sounded all too pleased.

“Well, lately the glass has been looking rather emptier…” He tapped his _civit_ glass with a wry smile. “Another expression of— “

“Mmm, I’m familiar with that one. It’s been my observation that Standard is riddled with such nonsense. Falling footwear and the like.”

“It’s not _nonsense_ : not for us bipeds, anyway. When someone takes off one shoe, you know there’s another coming.”

“Which somehow translates to…evident calamity? Do humans have some cultural disdain for feet of which I’m unaware?”

He rolled his eyes. He knew Garak was waving _borroka_ at him like a red cloth before a bull: he knew and yet he charged anyway, grateful for the flash of color amidst gray thoughts. “Okay then. What’s the imminently superior Cardasi equivalent? Let me bask in its rational perfection.”

Garak considered as he refilled their drinks, lamplight outlining his ridges in the same pale gold as the glasses. _A flash of color amidst gray, indeed._

“In similar situations I suppose we say _anset’ka s’sinanat’za_.”

His mind searched. “Listening for the…?”

“Echo.”

_Damn._

Garak’s smile was indulgent, as if waiting for a child to realize his error.

“Okay, yes, I do actually like that.”

“Of course you do, Doctor. It is both poetic and descriptive. It’s _Cardasi_.”

Julian chuckled despite himself. “Don’t think you can distract me with xenolinguistics.”

“Oh, I have a veritable list of topics at the ready to keep you distracted,” Garak said with a slight bow and a tilted grin that made the coil in Julian’s chest unwind slightly. Something in there might have even…fluttered? God, was he really going to _flutter_ now?

But the _civit_ was warm in the pit of his stomach, white-hot fingers kneading through his center and down his limbs. The arch of Garak’s brow was sharp and engaging; the _borroka_ as comfortable as the plush chair in which he sat. Through the window behind, three crescent moons smiled down from a darkening sky. Everything between was warm and subdued and stained gold.

Yes, he could _almost_ forget.

“I _will_ say that your comprehension of Cardasi is impressive for only drawing on _Odes_.”

Oh. Laket. _Admirable reverse, Mister Garak_.

Of course his comprehension _should_ be impressive. He’d thrown himself into _Odes_ with every bit as much fervor as his work in the lab. It had proven the perfect distraction for his flailing mind during those days locked in—a way to escape that endless loop of eyes and doubt and lost chances…

The Standard translation had gone quickly, and, to his surprise, he enjoyed it. The poems were formally varied, which kept things interesting, and the themes downright provocative, at least by Cardassian standards. No duty to the State, no sacrifice, not even a single glorification of the Union. Just revelry in nature and love and art. Delightfully _un_ -Cardassian, in fact, which made the challenge of deciphering the original all the more appealing.

The Cardasi script had taken no more than twenty minutes to suss out, _koret_ to _aken_. He leveraged the words and phrases he’d garnered during his years on the station to piece together a decent vocabulary, but the grammar had proven sticky, especially since Garak severed any connection to outside resources. His only option had been to start with the simplest poem and analyze. Fusional with loose subject-object-verb order, though some sentences seemed to switch into a more ergative-absolutive motif. Modifier ordering was up for grabs as was subordinating structure, though that could just be the poetry. Poetry was rubbish for learning syntax.

Yes, it had been a ridiculous notion, but he’d thrown himself into it all the same, as if there were an exam coming.

And the challenge had been enough to keep even his mind well-occupied. _A blessing, that._ Anything not to think about sacrificing his only chance at escape. About that cold, lost look on Garak’s face as he’d pulled away. About being pressed against the bookcase, besieged by body and hiss, the scratch of teeth down his neck …

_Ergativity_ , _yes_. That was something to ask about.

“Well, if we’re going to distract ourselves with xenolinguistics, I _do_ have some questions—”

But Loral’s entrance interrupted, and, by the time she’d laid out their meal, he’d forgotten ergativity entirely.

He’d never seen anything quite like it. It had the look of a cactus, he supposed, standing straight up in a burnished copper vase. Each branching stem of the not-quite-cactus sprouted four or five magenta blossoms, bulging unnaturally large. They had clearly been removed from the plant, cooked, and reattached with glossy thread.

Between Garak and himself, Loral set a single skewer, a gleaming gold to match the _civit_ glasses.

As usual, Garak made no immediate attempt to explain, waiting for Julian to admit his ignorance. He was hungry, so he yielded. “What…am I looking at here?”

Sure Julian was watching, Garak took the golden skewer and stabbed it through one of the blossoms with a practiced hand, releasing a thick aroma of something like garlic and cinnamon and edible heat. “This, Doctor, is _kai’tur._ ”

_Kai’tur_. It was mentioned in _Sand and Stones_ , the tenth poem of _Odes._ Maybe there was going to be an exam after all.

“Though it’s a rare sight these days, the _kai’tur_ plant was once found in abundance in the deserts around Cardassia City. When prepared for the table, the blossoms are removed and stuffed with _val_ , spices, and ground _aga-_ peppers, then soaked in sorvan butter and seared before being reattached.” He gave the skewer a tug and the thin thread popped loose. “The sweetness of the plant is reabsorbed into the blossoms, giving it a truly complex flavor.” He placed the blossom on his tongue whole, and, after a light crunch, swallowed, closing his eyes with relish. “It’s an old-fashioned dish. I wasn’t sure the replicator would even have it on file.”

Julian followed his example. The taste was incredible, flooding his mouth with salty _val_ and a heat that slicked his brow with sweat instantly. The sweet nuttiness of the blossom itself set against the spice in an unexpected but perfect blend.

He had a suspicion, however, that this dish was about more than taste. Garak had plucked it from _Odes_ for a reason.

_Approaching it sideways as usual, eh, Garak?_ He had to admit, it was a nice touch.

They passed the skewer back and forth for a few minutes, sharing the intimacy of the single instrument, before he broached the subject.

“This dish is associated with lovers, isn’t it?”

Garak’s composure didn’t waver, but Julian noticed that, for once, he kept his focus elsewhere. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, for one thing, we’re sharing a… whatever you call this.” He shook the skewer in the air.

“A _vhala’at_.”

“Right. We’re sharing a _vhala’at_. And it’s…well, it’s all a bit sensual, isn’t it?”

Garak sniffed. “If you say so, Doctor.”

“Come on, Garak. I remember the lines... ‘we share _kai’tur_ and silence/ in your ruddy light/ with the sand and the stones/ who keep our secrets’…?”

The heat of the _kai’tur_ had nothing on Garak’s gaze at it settled back on him _._ “So you _did_ realize the sun in _Odes_ symbolizes Kavit’s lover.”

“It would have been hard to miss. Though, I have to say, Kavit speaks of her in such violent terms I often wondered if it was love or hate. I suppose that’s—”

 “ _Him_ , Doctor,” Garak corrected, taking the _vhala’at_ with a prim smile. “Kavit’s ‘red sun’ was a ‘him.”

_Civit_ burned sideways, and he gave a little splutter. He tried to turn it into a bit of throat-clearing, aware he might be nodding more vigorously than was strictly necessary. “Oh…I...” _Come on, you prat._ “I see.”  

Garak’s look as he crunched down on another blossom was both amused and appraising. “It’s fairly well-documented that the red sun of _Odes_ was Erren Rait’zel, Legate of the Third Order and one of the greatest commanders in Cardassian history.”

Garak had pointed out a statue by that name during their train ride. “Rait’zel…that’s…”

“Partially homophonous with the word for ‘sun,’ yes. Not…subtle.”

“There was nothing terribly subtle about Kavit.”

“Indeed. Your use of ‘violent’ as a descriptor is apt. I often feel I’m being beaten over the head whilst reading _Odes_.”

Julian laughed. He’d _known_ Garak would profess to hate _Odes_. He’d also noted, however, that Garak kept no fewer than seven different editions and translations of it on his shelves—an observation he decided to keep tucked in his pocket until it was needed. _Perhaps I_ have _learned some things on Cardassia._

“Kavit and Rait’zel’s story is a famous one,” Garak continued, clearly disappointed that Julian hadn’t taken the bait. “The two met at Prime’s foremost military academy, and by all accounts became exceptionally close from their first meeting. After their time there, Rait’zel rose through the ranks and brought the Union glory it had not previously known. Three new worlds were annexed under his command. Kavit, on the other hand, became an ardent anti-expansionist and pacifist after his first tour of duty.”

On Garak’s tongue, the word ‘pacifist’ sounded downright indelicate. “Pacifist? I didn’t know those existed on Cardassia.”

“They _don’t_.” Garak stabbed through one of the blossoms with a skill that seemed briefly menacing. “Not for long, at least. But Rait’zel was powerful enough to protect his friend from the very serious trouble he would have experienced otherwise.”

Rait’zel even named his eldest son Ilian in Kavit’s honor, and Ilian Rait’zel’s line still flourishes today. In Coranum, in fact.”

“His…son?”

“Rait’zel’s son.”

_Oh come on._ Garak was being purposely thick. “Rait’zel’s son with…?”

“His wife.”

“His wife? While he was carrying on a well-documented, poetic affair with another man?”

“Don’t be tiresome, Doctor. One is love, the other marriage.”

“I suppose I’m rather used to the two being a bit…intertwined.”

“Cardassians draw a firmer line between them. In some happy circumstances, love and marriage _can_ exist together, but they certainly need not. Marriage is about children, continuing the unbroken line. It is solid and practical and sacred, while love—”

“ ‘—is a fever, longing still for that which longer nurseth the disease’?”

This earned him a spectacular scowl. Julian didn’t see how Shakespearean sonnets were any different than Kavit’s dramatic declarations but decided it wasn’t the time to tread that well-worn path. “Well, then, Kavit _did_ have a lot to ‘forget’.” 

“As did Rait’zel.” Garak was watching him with an intensity that stabbed straight through.

And understanding pierced him as certainly as any _vhala’at_.

Kavit and Rait’zel. _We share kai’tur and silence._ That’s why they were here in the library and not downstairs. The _silence_. There were no listening devices: there would be no one to hear them—to hear them what? Bicker about poetry and…

“You said you had a few questions, Julian…?”

His first name on those lips severed the thought as if by a blade.

Garak had produced a padd and was indicating the seat beside him on the couch, tone low with the softness of possibilities.  An invitation.

They’d shared _kai’tur._ And silence. Now for the secrets…

A quiet, sober voice inserted itself: he had to admit it sounded an awful lot like Benjamin Sisko. _Is this_ really _a man you want to ‘share secrets’ with, Julian?_ Kissing was one thing. This was something else entirely—a slow, simmering intimacy designed to tip into _more_.

Until this moment, they had always sat opposed, face to face with the safety of the space between.

But now they would sit beside one another, like…

Like what? Friends? Lovers?

And Julian was reminded, as he had been so many weeks before, of _kal-toh_.

There came a moment in every game of _kal-toh_ where the muddle of silver pins, which began as the very face and form of disorder, revealed the first hint of harmony. The more skilled the players, the more subtly the outline appeared—a perfect sphere hidden, all that time, in a welter of bends and points. And, as that sphere drew more and more distinct, it often felt that the player across was not an adversary but a partner, helping shape chaos into beauty, each move working towards that ordered, faultless climax.

That’s what this was, he knew—what Garak was. An adversary who, for these final moments, had become a partner. A partner helping the end of this chaos find its shape.

_Civit_ clutched in hands suddenly sweating, he crossed the space between.

Garak’s eyes tracked him, honed blue, like a knife drawn across vulnerable flesh. He recognized the shape in those eyes—the shape of _want_.

No hint of it, however, sounded in his voice. “So, Julian. What questions did you have?”

_Ergativity. Right._ “There were, um, a few things I wasn’t able to work out in the Cardasi.”

“Cardasi is a nuanced language. I would expect someone accustomed to the crude tool of Standard to  have difficulty wielding it.”

“You say ‘nuanced’. I say _overwrought._ ”

Garak set down the _vhala’at_ , exchanging it for his glass and a smirk. “Well, then, allow me to enlighten you.”

“Oh, do you think there’s hope of that?”

“Perhaps tonight ‘hope is the thing with scales’,” he misquoted airily.

Julian almost chuckled before... _of course._ “You were lying. You’ve read human poetry before.”

“What can I say, I have a fondness for the crude.” He dipped his head meaningfully in Julian’s direction.

_Ouch._ He huffed. _Remember, Julian. Just because you’re sitting beside doesn’t mean things aren’t still adversarial…_ Delightfully so. 

Well, then. Let the games begin…

He returned to the padd, searching for the perfect pin to move into place. “Ahh, let me…this one will work. _Morning._ ”

Garak leaned a few centimeters closer, ostensibly looking at the padd. The scent of _civit_ and soap and spice slid over him, as unnerving as any caress.

Then, to Julian’s surprise, Garak read aloud:

> You advance, slow as mourning,
> 
> Red veil drawn across the dunes
> 
> The shriveled husk, the plaintive thirst.
> 
> Before you terror; behind you ruin.
> 
> When we meet, in valley and peak,
> 
> I the tinder, you the fire
> 
> Your red eye will scalding seek
> 
> fair flesh laid bare along this pyre.
> 
> And though the wise toward shadows turn,
> 
> I quiver, and I beg to burn.

Several beats passed as they both stared at the padd and _only_ the padd.

Outside, night-locusts sang.

Finally, Garak made a derisive sound and sat back. “Vulgar. Almost Shakespearean levels of _vulgar_.”

Julian couldn’t help but smile. Yes, it was. _I can pluck things from_ Odes _to suit my purposes, too, Mister Garak…_

He made a show of blowing out air as if overheated. “Perhaps I enjoy vulgar then.”

Garak’s nod said he believed it _._   “And what, in particular, about this tawdry _s’sahmung_ …?”

“Oh, yes…um, these markings, _-ir’ta_ and _-sir’ta_. They’re scattered through quite a few of the poems, but I couldn’t see that they ever made a difference in the translation. I thought they might be akin to the transitivity—“ He made the mistake of looking up from the padd and, seeing Garak so close and so intent, lost the thread of the thought instantly.

Garak picked it up with seamless grace. “Like the _kai’tur_ , they’re antiquated. In fact, they were going out of style even in Kavit’s time. They’re called evidentials, and they identify the source of a stated fact. So, for example, here where Kavit says of the rising sun: _S_ ’s _atis’ka, ruma bakirta; atzi’ka, sanal hun’sirta_.”

“‘Before you, terror; behind you, ruin.’“

“Yes. But in this case the final - _sir’ta_ indicates that the statement is based on direct observation of events.”

“Kavit has seen the destruction his lover is capable of…?”

“Precisely.”

So even Kavit couldn’t _completely_ forget…“And the – _ir’ta_ on this line: ‘And though the wise toward shadows turn’ …?”

“- _ir’ta_ marks a statement based on the report or opinion of others. It conveys some degree of…uncertainty.”

Julian couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Garak again. _Some degree of uncertainty._ “So…though his lover is a force of destruction, Kavit isn’t certain he should…turn away.” _Kavit and I understand one another all of the sudden._ “Those few syllables communicate quite a lot of…”

“Nuance?”

He didn’t have to look up: he could _hear_ that smug smile, damn him. “I can see why they fell out of favor. Propaganda must be harder when you have to cite sources. Makes the truth a bit too clear-cut.”

“The truth is _never_ clear-cut, Doctor. Such speech gives the illusion that some truths are more certain, but, Rait’zel _was_ a butcher. Rait’zel _was_ merciful. And Rait’zel was also, ultimately, quite merci _less_ , even to Kavit. Those are _all_ true.” The assertion was delivered like a challenge, thrown at his feet. Another invitation.

 He sidestepped it. The surest way to lose at _kal-toh—_ and at this subtle play of _borroka—_ was to make the expected move. “The truth can be…faceted, I suppose. Especially as it relates to people. And how we see them.”

A look of exaggerated surprise. “Doctor…I had no idea you would compromise the purity of your principles so easily. A merciful butcher? Capable—and even—worthy of more than _scorn_?”

“I’m not _compromising_. Nor am I claiming anyone can be a merciful butcher. I’m just saying that people are complex, so the truth about a person can be …” He searched.

“ _Vrakat,”_ Garak offered over the lip of his _civit_.

Julian hadn’t encountered the word before, and the UT didn’t seem eager to assist. “ _Vrakat?_ Care to help the translator out?”

“A bit too ‘nuanced’ for Standard, I’m afraid.”

It was his turn to throw down the challenge. “Oh, but I’m sure you can ’enlighten me’.”

They watched each other through the delicate outline of an almost-sphere.

And then, without word or warning, Garak’s lips were on his, hot and tender. Breath mingled as they exhaled, and the small, wet sound of their joined mouths sent a shock down his spine. No doubt pleased to feel Julian shudder against him, Garak dipped once more, claiming his mouth entirely, sliding a hand behind Julian’s head to brace him against it. The beginnings of a hiss tickled the air around them.

But before Julian could shake off the bursting red-haze and return the kiss, Garak trapped his lower lip between sharp teeth and bit.

Julian yelped, hand jumping to his abused mouth to separate them. “Garak!” There was no blood, but it really felt as if there should be. “What the hell was that?!” 

A smile of triumph. “ _Enlightenment_ , Julian.” The hand behind his head dropped, and Garak returned to a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone. “I believe I can be so bold as to say that kiss was both enjoyable _and_ not enjoyable…?”

Julian’s lip throbbed in a way both painful and _not_. “I believe you could be so bold.”

“That is _vrakat_. Opposing truths, existing comfortably together. A butcher is a lover. Murder is an act of good; compassion, a disaster. _Vrakat_ exists in _all_ things, if one has the nerve to seek it and a mind that can accommodate its breadth.”

And through the sideways shine of lamplight, Julian saw it. Despite Garak’s lofty tone, this wasn’t about metaphysics or morality or even poetry. He was talking about _them_ , sitting beside each other—two opposites, existing comfortably together _._

“To the properly-trained mind, _vrakat_ can be quite delightful.”

Translation: _this_ is delightful to _me_.

Julian chuckled at the obliqueness of the declaration: hardly poetry, but perfect for the game they shared. “Well, I believe my constructed mind might be up for the task. I don’t…dislike a bit of _vrakat_ now and then, it seems.” _Yes, I’m game for this, too. To a point._ “In fact, if you wouldn’t mind, I think I could use a bit more ‘enlightenment’…?”

The small smile told him he’d been understood. Sideways, of course. “Remember the _golet_ , Doctor. Do try to control the artless impulses of youth and _savor_ it _.”_

_Hey!_ “‘Artless impulses’!”

This kiss was a whisper, Garak’s lips brushing the objection away with the merest hint of touch. A flick of tongue, and he realized Garak was licking at the swollen spot he’d bitten and then lapping, with a low hum of pleasure. Hum and hiss and the song of night-locusts vibrated together, a tempo marking time and desire.

He tried to lean forward and sweep that tongue into his mouth, but the other man pulled back again.

“Mmm, I think I’ve indulged your human obsession with lips long enough, don’t you?” With a look that pinned him in place, Garak took hold of the hand Julian had set between them for balance. “Something a bit more…nuanced, perhaps?” Gently, watching as if the act had meaning beyond any they’d shared so far, Garak pressed their hands together and, after a moment that ached like breath held too long, he slid the cool expanse of his palm against Julian’s, spreading brown fingers with gray, knuckles slotting between. Stretching. Opening. 

For what seemed a long time, Garak, breath shallow, allowed his fingers to rest in the spaces between, gentling the slight tremble of Julian’s hand on his.  The world narrowed to those spaces.

_This must be Cardassian kissing. It’s..hmm..it’s…_

One cool finger traced the vee between index finger and thumb with a deepening insistence that began to feel vaguely indecent. Petting became stroking became a needful rub. It spoke of the slip of scale and skin _elsewhere._ Resting on him, Garak’s eyes had begun to sharpen with hunger.

He couldn’t help the shuddering breath. “You’re—you’re right. Nuanced _.”_

“Not too…overwrought?”

Garak made as if to pull his hand away, but Julian kept it locked in his. Garak had kissed him—something he knew wasn’t necessarily part of the Cardassian play book—and he’d been a little too damned good at it. _I’m not going to be outdone…_

Running the fleshy pad of his thumb up the side of Garak’s hand and pausing to give Garak just a hint what was about to happen, Julian slid his fingers all the way out before thrusting them between again, deeper, until their hands were fully twined.

Garak’s breath caught, eyelids fluttering.

“Not overwrought at all.” He gave the other man’s hand a firm squeeze. “Just right.”

The slight delay of the response spoke volumes. “Mmm. Unlike that outfit you’re wearing.”

Julian slumped.

Really? He wanted to circle back to _sita_ now?  “They’re _your_ clothes, Garak.”

“But combining those particular items has certainly never occurred to me. Nor to anyone, I think, who processes color in the normal humanoid range.”

“Well, I’m _so_ sorry to have offended your superior aesthetics. Please do show me which piece is most offensive so I can remove it…?”

He was wrenched back into that hiss, lost in the scent of _civit_ and the feel of Garak’s fingers playing between his. He braced for another kiss, but instead Garak brought their cheeks close, breath tickling fine hairs, lips brushing the line of his jaw. The voice circled his ear with a tone of a threat. “I’m afraid it’s the whole ensemble together, my dear…”

He kept expecting the gesture to fall into something more aggressive, but Garak merely sat, touching cheeks and running his thumb up and down Julian’s hand. And…yes. He was scenting, cool prickles pulling up the bare length of Julian’s neck. _Oh God. If this is savoring…_ Sweat drizzled down, brow to jaw, internal heat set against the cool of Garak’s scales. This savoring would drive him to distraction…

_Right. Time to be crude._

He brought their joined hands to his waist and was rewarded with an indistinct sound of pleasure. Sure to wind Garak’s grip around his middle, he pressed his lips fully to cheek bone, tracing the soft, barely-texture of the skin there before continuing on to the ridges of Garak’s ears and down, nibbling at the spot where neckridge began.

Garak moaned.

“How’s this for ‘artless impulses’, _a’gheri_?” he growled between nibbles.

He could feel Garak huff, indignant, against him. _Oh, that one hit the mark._ ‘ _Grandpa’_ had that effect in any language…

 He deepened the nibble into a proper nip.  “Perhaps I can convince you to indulge my human obsession with lips just a bit more?” He slid Garak’s hand lower until it rested on his hip. It took all his self-control not to buck forwards. “Do you think your heart can handle it?”

The hiss flared wildly, and for the first time, Garak’s response was slow. Unsteady. “Perhaps…I was hasty in dismissing… artless impulses altogether…”

When Julian pulled back to gauge him more fully, Garak’s face had darkened, ridges swollen and flushed charcoal, outlining his features like finely-etched silver. _Oh dear, that is rather gorgeous…_

But something lingered in his eyes.

“Julian…if you. If this is not—our situation—”

“Tongue-tied, _a’gheri_? If I’d known this was all it took…”

“I’m trying to—I’m _serious_.”

A sudden absence of hands on his body. _No no no, don’t pull away again!_

But the look on Garak’s face had grown uncharacteristically earnest, and in an instant, a different sort of affection bloomed through Julian, set against the heat in his groin like the twinned sweetness and spice of _kai’tur._

 Garak didn’t want to hurt him. He was trying to be…kind? Careful?

The kind inquisitor: _vrakat indeed._

For a moment, thinking the thought and staring into Garak’s eyes, he feared he might fall into it again—that coiled dread the other man had so expertly unraveled with liquor and poetry and _sita_ and hand upon hand…

_The only way we touch is to forget_ , he reminded himself.

Could that be true? Could that be _one_ truth?

But he knew the question had many answers, each as true as the next.

He took Garak’s hand in his and chose to _forget._

“I _want_ this.” He lifted their hands and set a gentle kiss on Garak’s knuckle, sure to let the wet warmth of lips linger a moment too long across the bend of those gray fingers.

The hiss in the other man’s chest wavered, almost a sigh. Something in the sound caused lust to flare to hot, new heights, shot through with the tender green of affection.

_Savor it, Julian._

Soon this would be over, one way or another—the game finished.

_Forget._

Another knuckle, another quaking hiss.

_Forget forget forget._

But the thought came anyway, sideways as everything else.

“What…what happened to Kavit and Rait’zel? Do I want to know?”

Garak’s eyes were pinned to Julian’s lips as they worked across each finger. His words shook slightly. “Kavit wrote an essay condemning a campaign Rait’zel championed. He was arrested; Rait’zel didn’t intervene. Kavit died in prison.” Beneath the gibbering surface of lust, an undertow of grief.  “It’s said he wrote his finest and most beautiful poem to Rait’zel while awaiting sentence, and that Rait’zel burned it so its beauty would remain their secret forever... or so the story goes.”

 “Not exactly a happily ever after.”

Garak placed their joined hands against his neck, the curve of Julian’s knuckles brushing neckridge. “Few find such happiness even for a day. Asking for ‘ever after’ is the mistake of all romantics.”

_You plow through your pleasure as if there will always be more waiting at the end…_

He found Garak’s eyes. “Then I’ll ask for just one more thing, Elim.”

The name produced a surprisingly genuine smile. “My dear, if you ask for _cake-and-ghevet_ to go with it…”

Julian laughed, tracing the scales gone pewter down the other man’s neck, delighted to feel them swell under his touch.

“I know it’s vulgar, but…”

Garak’s eyeridges rose.

Lacing their hands a bit tighter, he wrapped Garak’s arm around him until they were close enough to feel the shivering hiss pressed between. “Read to me from _Odes_?”

He would never have expected Garak’s voice capable of such open tenderness. “Of course, _mata_.”

The night wound on, full of words and silence and well-kept secrets.

 

***********************

The room was the same, but the sound was all wrong, chirping of night-locusts replaced by a pulsing trill. _Tik tiiik tiiiiik tiiiiiiiik tiiiiiiiiik tiiiiiiiiiiiiiik_...

_Dabo!_

His eyes shot open, searching.

The table was wrong, too, the cheap veneer of Quark’s as unmistakable as the man sitting on the other side.

_What the hell have you been drinking, Julian?_

“Chief?”

_It smells like the compound we use to remove ultridium buildup in the conduits._

Julian looked at the glass in his hand, wondering when, exactly, he’d begun to enjoy that smell. 

“It’s _civit_.”

_That Cardassian rot? Christ, Julian. Even my Uncle Seamus won’t touch that stuff, and he mixes Romulan ale into his whiskey._

 “I know, but it’s…grown on me.”

_Has it?_ O’Brien turned his eyes to Garak dozing on the couch. _Not the only Cardie vice you’ve picked up, eh?_

 “Chief…”

_I know, I know. But you have to admit: you’ve been a real idiot about the whole thing._

He allowed himself a glance at Garak. Even in sleep, he somehow looked alert. Controlled.

“I suppose I have.”

_Can’t say I’m surprised about that, though_.

The joking look they exchanged reminded him, with a sudden twinge, of home.

_It…uh, it must be hard. To say goodbye._

“Harder than it should be, really.”

_Mmm. That’s love for you._

He searched himself. No, not love. And yet …

He knew from the warp and weft of it—the stretched feel of his mind and heart. It was _vrakat_.

“Yes. It is.” And isn’t.

With a smirk, the other man offered his glass in toast. _I can see why you drink…_

The _civit_ burned, but he’d grown to enjoy the burning, too.

_Ye gods, how can you possibly_ enjoy _that?_

 He couldn’t help but smile.  “Slowly. Stupidly. Like a real idiot.”

O’Brien shook his head but smiled just the same. _Well, then, as Uncle Seamus likes to say, ‘What doesn’t kill yeh’s good for a second round.’_

He didn’t look at Garak this time. Couldn’t.

“I don’t think there’ll _be_ a second round, Chief.”

The other man caught the tone, and his eyes softened. “Ahh, well. In memory of the first, eh?”

He lifted the glass once more.

The cry of _dabo_ faded back into the silence of sleep.

*******************

“Doctor Baa’chir?”

The moment Julian opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong.

Outside the window, gray clouds clogged the sky. Since his arrival, the Cardassian sun had been a relentless presence, fierce and watchful. Its absence was as unnerving as that of the man who had fallen asleep beside him.

There was a note of urgency in Loral’s voice. “Baa’chir, you’ll need to return to your room, please.”

The look in her eyes did nothing to reassure him. “Where’s Garak?”

“ _S’sava_ was called away early this morning, but he’ll be back any moment. He said to be sure you returned to your room before they got here.”

“They?”

“ _Please_ , Baa’chir.”

The _click-click-click_ ing of the door locks sounded distinctly like the drop of the other shoe.

There was little he could do. Wait. Think. Try to stay calm.

He paced in front of the window, distracting himself from worst-case-scenarios by taking in the shrouded Cardassian morning. The whole cold-blooded city seemed in a torpor, everything moving slow, life trickling. Time trickling. It clashed with the urgency—the heat—rising in him.

Garak had been called away. He wished he could think otherwise, but he knew. Something had changed. Something wasn’t going as planned.

_Come on, Julian. No need to dance around it._

Or maybe it was going _precisely_ as planned.

He scanned the room and tried to stay calm. He was a Starfleet officer. He had to be able to handle this. Could he arm himself? Was there anything of use? He should have saved the vial and the hypo. Should have left when he had the chance. Should have should have should have…

There was no chime: Garak entered without preamble.

“Garak…what—“

The other man held up his hand, the look on his face so severe that Julian stopped without question.

Something twisted. _I’ve seen that face before…_

This wasn’t the man who’d fallen asleep beside him—the man who leaned in close over Cardasi odes. This was the man who parted crowds on the sidewalk. The man who described destroying the neighborhood as if discussing the weather. This was the man…

He didn’t want to think it, but it came just the same.

_Who pressed the button_.

Suddenly, as if the paltry gray light had thinned too far, the fullness of _vrakat_ disappeared, illuminating only a single truth.

Julian stepped back, putting as much distance as he could between them.

_You wanted to forget, Julian_. But suddenly, all at once, he remembered _._

“I take it this is the echo I’m hearing?” He’d meant to sound flippant, but it came out all wrong. A bitter rustle.

“Doctor, we have only a moment, so I ask that you listen and do _not_ interrupt.”

He met Garak’s eyes. They were opaque.

“The _Ghezur_ is still scheduled for departure this evening as planned. However, before you are taken to the shuttleport, the Order has requested that you…consult on one further matter.”

“Euphemisms, Garak? That’s not like you... Just _say_ it.” He trembled now, cold terror and hot anger colliding in a sudden storm. He tried to steady himself against the window sill, bracing himself to say the words. “They’re going to _torture_ me for information before they send me back.”

Garak said nothing. The nothing said everything.

“Ahh. _If_ they send me back. If I _cooperate_.”

A flicker of softness. “Julian—“

“ _Don’t_.”

The word bounced off that polished Order façade leaving not a single scratch. “Doctor, there is no reason for you _not_ to cooperate. The matter at hand will not force you to betray Federation or Starfleet secrets. They— _we_ —are not interested in military strategy or technology. What we need from you will benefit the security of Cardassia _and_ the Federation. You have no reason to resist.”

“What on Earth could I possibly know that wouldn’t betray my oath to Starfleet?”

“That will be explained.” The sharpness of his eyes dulled, washed out in wan light. “ _Please_ , Julian. Answer his questions. Help him, and by this time tomorrow, you’ll be home.”

Julian could feel it, the throat-tightening burn beginning to creep up to the space behind his eyes. They sat across from each other once again, and as they stared across that space, close but at a great distance, Garak was every bit the Order agent—every bit but one. The blue that met him was the same that had caressed him as he fell asleep.

Stroking his hair. Mumbling Cardasi endearments…

_You’ve been a real idiot about the whole thing._

“They’ll send me home, will they?”

He was only vaguely aware of the hand Garak had set on his. Cool, almost pleading. “Yes. This is not the time to be a man of principle, Julian. You can go home if you remember that.”

Julian pulled his hand away. It hurt. “ _-ir’ta_ or – _sir’ta_ , Elim?”

For the first time, the mask across that face slipped. There was pain beneath it.

“- _ir’ta_ or _–sir’ta_?”

The door behind him opened and two Cardassians entered, dressed in a black so black it absorbed what little light remained.

He knew the hypo was coming. He never looked away from Garak as the blackness crawled over him.

They said no goodbyes.

 

**********************

The ground hummed up through the soles of his feet in pulse-pulse-pulses. Jules had been counting them since they’d sat him down at the table. _467\. 468. 469._ Once, when the man pushed the screen closer and made hard sounds, he lost count. The man’s coat was bright. It hurt. He stayed with the pulses. _489\. 490._

The white-coat man made a louder noise. If Jules looked up, he knew he would see pink veins in the man’s eyes. He didn’t look up. _510\. 511._ He glanced at the screen, sidewise.

The same shapes they showed at school. That one was ‘bee’. That one was ‘ay’. The swirly one…he couldn’t remember. But he liked the curve of it. _523\. 524._  Like the walk at the park between the slide and swings. It turned through a cool patch of shadow and—

_Ess._

The answer blurted. Maybe he remembered it after all. Carefully, he tried again.

_Bee. Ay. Ess. Aitch. Eye. Arr._

The hum continued, but the white-coated man went quiet.

Going quiet was bad. People went quiet and then got loud and their faces hurt.

He rocked and counted, trying to work up to it. _556\. 557. 558. 559._ His eyes slid up—just up to the mouth.

The man had an ugly mouth. But it looked happy now.

Not bad-quiet. Happy-quiet. That was new. _626\. 627._ Mum was the only one who did happy-quiet. When he touched her hand.

The white-coat spoke and pointed at the screen. A holo played, just like at school. They were always playing holos at school. The screen was bright. He looked away.

But he heard it. Singing voices, soft as fur. _This is the ABCs jamboree. The ABCs jamboree._ He liked this. _The bee says buh. Buh Buh Buh. The see says kuh. Kuh kuh kuh._

He rubbed his arm. It hurt where they’d needled him. _645\. 646. 647._

He hated needles. He hated white coats. Everything was stretched. And sharp.

His fingers found it, brown and perfect and soft. Hard black eyes felt smooth. And good.

The music stopped. _679\. 680._ The screen showed shapes again.

_Bee. Ay. Ess. Aitch. Eye. Arr._

“What does it say, Jules? Can you put it together?”

  1. _724._ _This is the ABCs jamboree. The bee says_



“Bass..hir.”

Mum was making happy noises. She hadn’t made those since the shuttle.

He liked the shuttle. It hummed, too, but you couldn’t count that one. It just _was_. One. One. One. It didn’t stop. It was good.

Mum got close. She smelled like home.

“Jules. Jules. You read it!”

_Bee. Ay. Ess. Aitch. Eye. Arr._

She was happy-quiet then. He liked that. He liked that a lot. He tried again.

“Bas..hir.”

Yes. Mum had a pretty mouth.

He touched his chest. Bashir. They called him that, the teachers at school. That was _him_.

“Yes, Jules. ‘Bashir.’” Her warm hand shook his, but her mouth was still happy. Good-shake. “’Bashir.’”

“Bashir?”

He blinked. _787\. 788._

“Doctor Bashir?”

The mouth was ugly again. And gray. But smiling. _791\. 792._

“Ahh, good. I was beginning to think we might have to douse you with cold water.”

Everything went cold, as if they’d done just that.

His hands were restrained, pinned to the chair. As were his ankles. The man across from him wore not white but black, the table between them matte and spare. There were no holos.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor. Though I feel I know you already after reading Garak’s reports.”

The name half-registered. He couldn’t think about Garak. Could barely think at all.  “It seems you have me at a disadvantage,” he managed groggily.

The other man chuckled, as if they were sharing some delightful joke. “Oh, quite. Forgive me, Doctor. I’m Enabran Tain, former head of the Obsidian Order.”

Though the room was still coming in and out of focus, the Cardassian’s dark eyes shot through with fearsome clarity. _Former head of the Obsidian Order_. The man pulling Garak’s strings. Pulling his strings, when it came to it. “Former?”

“I retired several years ago.”

Julian looked around the room theatrically, letting his face ask the question.

“Yes, well, retirement can get a bit dull.  As one man who loves his job to another, take my advice and put it off as long as you can.” Tain’s smile was avuncular. “But enough about me. Tell me, Doctor Bashir, have you enjoyed your time on Cardassia? Garak has done his best to be accommodating, I know.”

The words were genial, the tone light, but Julian sensed the edge of a blade beneath. He didn’t need one word more to know how entirely dangerous this man was. Or how loathsome. “I haven’t seen much of Cardassia beyond rooms like these.”

“Ahh, but what more representative view could there be? This room _is_ Cardassia.”

He couldn’t help but think of Garak now, reclined in the moonlight, comparing Cardassia to a garden. 

_Garden and interrogation chamber_. Perhaps between the two, they encapsulated this world indeed.

“Well, Cardassia is certainly grateful to have had _you_ , Doctor. I want to express my deepest appreciation for your work in helping us to cure _heriot’za_. A monumental accomplishment, and I can promise that your contribution will ensure many generations of Cardassians continue and thrive. The greatest achievement any of us can hope for.”

“Gratitude on Cardassia certainly leaves something to be desired. Where I’m from torture isn’t exactly how we ‘express appreciation’.”

“Doctor, please. I have no intention of _torturing_ you. No, no, no.  What I want to discuss is as much about protecting the Federation as it is about protecting the Union.” He steepled his fingers. “I want to talk to you about ensuring the security of the Alpha Quadrant.”

His stomach lurched as if they’d rounded a sudden, unexpected bend. “You—you want to talk about the Dominion?”

Tain made a dismissive gesture. Garak had made the same one many times, when he felt the question was an obvious one. The resemblance was uncanny. “You were one of the Starfleet officers taken by the Dominion in the Gamma Quadrant, I believe?”

He tried not to think of the chamber where he’d woken, blank, violet Vorta eyes watching him as if he were a particularly dull lab rat.  “Yes...”

“It was on the Founders’ homeworld, was it not?”

“How do you…know about that?”

“Information is my business, Doctor.”

“I thought you’d retired.”

“I’ve found I have more time—and freedom—to keep up with current events in retirement. Less paperwork, more time to study. To read. To think.” The man leaned back, appraising. “You’ve also been the chief medical officer on Terok N—forgive me—Deep Space Nine for three years now?”

He nodded.

“And it is my understanding that you have one of these Founders aboard the station? The same one who was working for—” He glanced down at the padd in front of him. “Prefect Dukat during the Occupation?”

“Odo isn’t a Founder. He turned his back on them after they threatened us.”

The jovial glimmer had vanished from the man’s eyes. They studied him now like an anatomical specimen, divided down its center. “And you feel that is a genuine sentiment? That he has truly abandoned his people and their interests?”

To be frank, he’d never considered that it wasn’t. “Of course. I would trust Odo with my life.”

“I see.” He sat back and took a moment to enter something in his padd with a frown.

“Look, if you have contacts who’ve told you that much, there’s nothing more _I_ can add. I put it all in my report. I’m guessing you’ve already read it somehow. I’m guessing that’s the reason _I_ was lucky enough to be selected for this little trip to Cardassia.”

 He didn’t look up from his notes, but he did smile. “Very good, Doctor Bashir. Garak was right: you’re clever.” There it was again, like the whisper of a snake in the grass.

_God, Julian_. What had Garak been telling them all these weeks? Was it all there, on that padd? Every exchange, every look? Every time they’d brushed knees or leaned in close, had the Order known? Was it all catalogued somewhere: _21:03, human smirks and tries to eat cake in a moderately suggestive manner_?

No, no. Garak wouldn’t have done that. Garak didn’t want them to know about this anymore than he did.

Right?

With a little sigh, Tain put the padd down and settled back on Julian. Though the smile returned, the eyes were deadly cold. “Yes, we have all the information that was provided to Starfleet. And it _is_ why I suggested your name to Central Command. But, at the moment, it is your medical knowledge and your enhanced memory that interest me most.”

“Medical? What--?”

Tain handed across a second padd.

 “You see, Doctor, the Central Command has shown an alarming lack of concern about the Dominion threat. Much like your superiors in Starfleet, they are content to wait and watch with cautious optimism.” He huffed. “‘Cautious optimism.’ There’s a peculiar phrase. Caution and optimism make poor bedfellows, wouldn’t you agree?”

But he wasn’t in the mood to debate. He’d seen just enough to know _exactly_ what Tain had in mind.

“You’re building weapons. To use against the Founders.”

“We’re engaging in cautious pessimism, Doctor. If the time comes when a war with the Dominion is inevitable, we will be ready. Not to fight long and bloody battles against the Jem’hadar. Not to bandy words with the Vorta. To sever the head at the neck. To destroy the Founders themselves.”

He thumbed through the padd as best he could. The first few screens contained detailed schematics for a device that could, theoretically, neutralize the modulation of a changeling’s morphogenic matrix by immersing it in a low-frequency radiation field.

“Ahh, that’s what our theoretical team has been calling ‘The Icebox.’ They believe it should prevent a changeling from altering form. What do you think, Doctor? You’ve interacted more closely with changeling physiology than anyone in the Alpha Quadrant, excepting, perhaps, Mora Pol.”

“What, you couldn’t be bothered to kidnap him instead?” Julian snapped, rolling across the schematics with disgust. The truth was that it _might not_ work, at least for extended periods. It was well-designed, but the focal radiation it used was not strong. In his observations, the morphogenic matrix displayed a high degree of adaptability at the quantum level. Locking it for an indefinite period would require force. Enough concentrated radiation that it might be difficult to prevent—

_Stop, Julian._ This wasn’t some riddle to be solved. “This is a weapon.”

“Shape-shifting is an advantage. This removes it.”

“By which you mean it’s dreadfully inconvenient trying to torture someone who can slide off the rack whenever they want.”

Tain’s appraisal stretched him as fiercely as any such device.

The next few pages were speculative papers that took the principle of the Icebox and extrapolated it not to the neutralization of the matrix but to the permanent disruption of it. It continued by calculating the necessary photonic energy to disrupt the entirety of the Great Link. And then some disagreement among the scientists, he gathered, as to whether Changelings could continue to live in the vacuum of space…

“You’re talking about _genocide_.”

“No, Doctor. I’m talking about _defense_. I’m talking about defending everything I hold dear, and, by extension, everything you hold dear as well.”

“You don’t know the first thing about what I hold _dear_. If you did, you’d know this is a pointless conversation. I won’t help you or anyone else wipe out an entire race.”

“I know more about you than you think, Doctor.” His tone was low: it made promises _._ “And you _will_ help us. You will tell us everything you know. How to improve these designs, every scrap of information in that head of yours that might have any bearing on this research. A mind like yours must have gathered _plenty_ of scraps…”

 “And then you’ll, what, send me home? You expect me to believe that if I give you my notes, my memories, my… _knowledge_ …you’ll, what? Take me to the ship and send me on my merry?”

“That was the agreement, was it not? Garak has worked _so_ hard to arrange the exchange of Morel. It would be a shame for you to ruin his plans.”

Julian tried to read him—tried to decipher how much of this Garak had known. Planned. But Tain’s face was that same standard, Order-issued inscrutable he’d come to know so well.

“How do you expect to stop me from warning Starfleet the second I’m back on Deep Space Nine?”

Tain chuckled, returned once more to his jovial twinkle. “I think you’ll agree, Doctor, that telling some secrets benefits _no one_.”

And there it was.

Well, for all his bluster, Tain had underestimated him. “That won’t stop me from telling them.”

“Telling them what? That we’re building weapons to protect ourselves from the Dominion threat? I wouldn’t trade your secret for _that_ trifling revelation, Doctor. Surely you must know that Starfleet is doing the same. Who do you think got to Mora Pol first? What do you think Starfleet Intelligence does with all that information you put down so prettily in your medical reports?”

That wasn’t true. That wasn’t Starfleet. He _had_ to believe…

But his mind was too tired—too overfull—to battle through the thought. Not with the weight of another so heavy atop it. Gripping his hands into fists, he forced himself to ask.

“And…if I refuse?”

The question sat, shapeless, between them. They examined it for a silent moment as if it were a thing alive.

“Is this where I threaten you, Doctor? I don’t think I need to. I’ll leave that to my operatives.” He chuckled. “Another benefit of retirement.”

“Oh, you don’t fool me. I’m sure you miss _this_ most of all.”

“I enjoy working for the benefit of the Motherland, Doctor. I’ve never relished time spent in rooms such as these.” A twitch of the eyes, a sadistic curl of the mouth. “Garak, on the other hand…”

The words struck him, and Julian wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and turn in. To rock shut and black out sound, thought, and memory. But he wouldn’t give Tain the satisfaction.

“I’ve never had an operative with such a natural talent for this work. And a natural delight.”

It flickered back, though he tried to escape it. The snarl of gray lips. _You stink of secrets._ The bored look in blue as Julian pulled himself from the floor, cheeks smeared with tears, pain echoing through every nerve.

 “Yes... It’s easy to forget, isn’t it? That is Garak’s gift. The smile, the wit, the _finesse._ Why do you think I selected him for this assignment?”

Julian looked away, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop the tears shivering in his eyes.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Doctor. You’re hardly the first to be charmed. If it makes you feel better, I believe he was a bit charmed himself…Oh yes, I know about that. Information, as I said…”

 Tain had leaned forward, eyes flashing. Something in their shape and feel was sickeningly familiar, and for a wobbling, repellant moment, Julian found himself smelling _civit_ and touching the spaces between cool fingers. His stomach turned. For a man who hadn’t yet been tortured, he felt broken open entirely.

“But make no mistake, Doctor Bashir: Garak belongs in this room, doing this work. He may smile and charm, but in the end, he will always sit in this chair and do his duty.”

It took everything that remained in him to keep his voice from guttering out. “You sound like you’re trying very hard to convince yourself of that.”

The same hearty laugh. “I can see why Garak likes you, Doctor. Take some time to review the notes and gather your…thoughts. An operative will be in to take your information shortly.”

The smile that distended Tain’s face as he left was the only confirmation Julian needed.

The next person to come through that door—the operative who would come to collect his information—was most certainly going to be Elim Garak.

They would get to say goodbye after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert requisite apology for how embarrassingly long this chapter took to come to fruition. Please forgive me, and, as always, I am stupidly grateful that anyone puts up with it.
> 
> Yeah, so it occurred to me that if there was a chapter to be nervous about in terms of it being a hair-pin emotional about-face, this is the one. I hope that the drop from the heights was enjoyable and not traumatic...
> 
> Cardassian hand-making-out is very loosely inspired by DD9, especially [this piece](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087486/chapters/2188207) by [tinsnip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip). Obviously, everyone should read anything by tinsnip ever.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented and kudosed in these long spaces between chapters: I am in awe of how generous and wonderful you all are. Please do continue to let me know what you think as you feel moved to do so. 
> 
> Also, [wobblycompetencies](http://wobblycompetencies.tumblr.com/) has blessed me and the world with an *ABSOLUTELY STUNNING* portrait of [Inquisitor Garak](http://wobblycompetencies.tumblr.com/post/172012392359/they-train-men-like-me-the-same-as-those-racing) over on tumblr. I have no words for how crazy good this is. Look at it and marvel at how the inquisitor stares straight into your soul... (In addition, if you haven’t read [her work on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wobblycompetencies/pseuds/wobblycompetencies), you are missing out. Highly recced.) 
> 
> And, of course, please say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8) if that's your scene: I won’t bite, although, I do occasionally ramble.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

He stared down at them, and, from the polished surface of the table, they stared back—three white ovoids as bright and unassuming as the moons at joined-full. They’d been waiting just where he’d left them, in that small, hidden space between his Denoubulan thimbles and the unexpurgated edition of Iloja he’d picked up on Ventani Prime.

They weren’t pleasant, he remembered that. They helped with the problem, of course—all those inconvenient emotions—but they created problems of their own. Teeth grinding. Stomach upset. A heart that sped to bursting then stopped a moment later as if in death.

And the come down was a separate hell. His night would be…unpleasant. 

But it would be nothing compared to facing the day without them.

Glass scraped glass as he opened the decanter. Kanar helped with the chest pain and the stomach upset. _And_ _the memory_.

It was always _this_ memory: the ritual brought it back. It had been the same after Tzenketh. After Anath’or.

And it stung just the same. One last prick before the pills washed everything away.

He’d been five or so, helping Mila clean the narrow fireplace in the study upstairs. Finished and filthy, he was sneaking to the kitchen to wash his hands when Tain called down the hall after him.

At that age, Tain was a terror yet unknown—a figure of fear but an abstract one, like the _Aras’st_ that terrorized selfish children in Mila’s bedtime stories. Mila had impressed on him time and again not to bother _S’sava_ , not to make himself seen or heard where he wasn’t wanted. Tain had no time or patience for children, and one did not try the patience of Enabran Tain. _It’ll be worse than a smack, Elim_ , Mila warned (he had a bad habit of not being put off by a smack or two). Tain, she promised, punished with a practiced and sadistic hand. Garak didn’t miss the spark of fear in her eyes as she said it. This wasn’t like climbing the garden walls or sneaking extra _ghevet_ from the pantry. This was a rule to _obey_.

But certainly worse than bothering Tain was the idea of ignoring him. So Garak had backtracked to find the large man looming just outside the dining room. Though his eyes were sharp, his voice swayed and tilted with liquor, and, when he led Garak into the room after him, Garak instantly knew the adults arrayed around the table were in a similar state. Everything reeked of kanar and _civit_ and oiled wood. Men wore black or military uniforms; ladies wore fine, pleasing patterns with hair arranged in ways Garak could never have imagined. He’d been all too aware of the soot on his hands.

Tain said something about the housekeeper’s boy before he turned to Garak. Garak still remembered the look. Testing. Curious. With a hint of… he hadn’t understood then, but he did now. _Sentiment._

“Alright, boy…Elim? Is that right?”

One of the ladies gave a quiet giggle and commented on ‘quaint service names.’

Garak managed a nod.

“Alright, then, Elim. Take this.” He’d handed him a crystal glass of kanar. It trembled.

“No need to be nervous, boy. We’d like you to give _s’sarad_ for the final bottle.” A hand on his shoulder. Firm. It squeezed. “You _do_ know how to give _s’sarad_ , correct?”

Of course he did. It was in Mila’s stories, too: heroes always gave _s’sarad_ for the final bottle before a battle or a marriage or some other momentous event. He’d asked Tolan once why _they_ never gave _s’sarad_. He’d said that was for a different sort of person and a better sort of drink. Mila had told him to hush and finish his _masok._

“Yes, _s’sava_. I do.”

“Well, go about it then.”

Hands shaking soot into the air, he took the glass between them and raised it up. “We—we honor our parents.”

Everyone at the table sipped, giving him indulgent smiles.

Another lift of the glass. “We honor our leaders.”

Another sip.

“We honor Cardassia.”

There had been a few murmurs of enthusiasm. Tain made one himself before taking a long pull from his glass. “You see, Makor! These councilmen talk nonsense about hopelessness and starvation and the damage the military has inflicted. But I tell you—look at this boy. Well-fed. Well-mannered. Even the smallest and meanest of Cardassians honors his forbears. Honors his state. Where’s the hopelessness? Where’s the harm?”

Several of the men gave enthusiastic knocks on the table.

“This ‘revolution’ they’re calling for …it’s a bunch of bitter old bureaucrats sitting at their desks greedy for what they don’t have. _This_ is Cardassia as it is. As it should be. Even a simple boy knows it.”

His eyes had flickered back to where Garak stood, confused and leaving a small, black ring on the plush carpet.

“Oh, go on and clean up, boy.” He’d taken the glass and shooed him from the room.

The next day, Tain and the Order had rounded up all but two members of the Detapa Council on grounds of treason. They’d been dragged before the firing squad the same day. Garak had watched it on the viewscreen in the market while Mila haggled with a vendor over a bag of _val_.

No one outside of storybooks gave _s’sarad_ for the last bottle anymore. No one except Tain.

And Garak. _After a fashion, anyway._

He looked down at the pills, rueful. The same as he had after Anath’or. After Tzenketh.

He washed the first down with a mouthful of kanar.

_We honor our parents._

The second.

_We honor our leaders._

The last.

_We honor Cardassia._

He glanced up at the door, feeling the muffled sensation draw over him almost immediately. Muscles unclenched, and his mind, like a caged beast blinking at the sudden openness of sky, freed itself—allowed itself to think again.

Tain’s men would arrive soon to take him to Bashir. Tain was calling for him again, down the hallway. Calling for him to prove a point.

He’d thought he understood Tain in this. The doctor was well-positioned on Terok Nor: regularly involved in Starfleet’s interactions with the Dominion yet not in a position so central he might be suspected. The secret was lovely collateral, and they had developed a rapport. As good a line of information as any. They’d been looking to get eyes and ears on that station for several years now.

Of course he also knew the doctor would never willingly barter his secret for the Federation’s. But Tain _didn’t_ know that, and Garak had decided he might find another way. He could arrange a friendly visit, perhaps. Or gift the doctor with a novel with a few discreet monitoring routines designed to worm their way into the station’s systems.

The important thing had been to get the human back among his kind. He would, at least, be safer there. Not impossible to reach, certainly, but…it was the best choice they had.

If he’d known what Tain was planning…he certainly wouldn’t have…

He met memories of the previous night with kanar and willed the pills to hurry their work.

Well for all that planning, he’d been wrong. Tain wasn’t interested in a line of information. He already had it. Already had a whole damned fleet of ships. With Romulan cloaking devices. And Tal Shiar informants.

At least that had surprised Lok too. Tain had kept it from everyone. He’d been working for _months_ on his own, and no one had noticed. _You can bet he loves that._ Even in retirement, he’d outclassed the entire Order: arranged the grandest operation in the history of Cardassian intelligence, and the only thing anyone noticed was that he’d developed a strange habit of drinking Romulan cocktails.

Strange was a good word for it. _Strange._

Tain hated the Romulans, the Tal Shiar most of all. Sure, danger had a way of drawing enemies to the same table—and it _was_ a bold plan---but it was hard to believe that Tain would _ever_ agree to sit at the same table as the Tal Shiar, let alone sup from the same dish.

_And before you know it, you’re eating viinerine and wearing nothing but_ gray.

His hand paused halfway to the glass.

_Go ahead, Elim. Ask the question. There’s no one to hear you now._

Was Tain…making a mistake?

But even the haze of the pills couldn’t sustain the question for longer than it took to ask.

_You’re just trying to think your way out of this. Trying to make it fall out in some way that doesn’t involve sitting across the table from…_

The door opened with a whisper.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t have to. He knew those footfalls as well as any in the Union. He drew the bottle a little closer.

“Well…I’m glad to see it wasn’t _all_ an act.”

The voice hurt but softly, like the downy touch of gauze on an open wound. “Go home, Kelas. You can’t be here.”

Parmak sat, and, without a word, took Garak’s chin in his hand, turning his face up to examine. Measuring pupil dilation, no doubt. “Loral commed and said men from the Order had taken Bashir. And that you were meant to…join them shortly.”

Garak answered with kanar.

After a long, silent moment, Parmak reached over and replied in kind.  “What are you going to do, Elim?”

“My duty, Kelas.”

“And what duty might that be? Torturing a _good_ man? A man you care for? A _lover_?”

Somehow hearing Kelas say it hurt in new, terrible ways.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Elim. You must think me blind as a regnar. Just tell me _why_ that should be your duty.”

Parmak asked, but he already knew the answer. It was always the same.

“For Cardassia.” It felt—and sounded—more bitter than he’d intended.

“Hasn’t Bashir given Caradassia enough? Haven’t you?”

“It’s never enough.”

He was saying the words—saying them but they weren’t coming out the same.

“You and I both know this isn’t about _Cardassia_. Do you _really_ think Tain needs something from the human that he couldn’t get himself? That any one of a hundred operatives couldn’t get just the same? This is about _you_ , Elim.”

“Go _home_ , Kelas.”

“This is about you and _that_ _man_. No matter who you care for Tain will make _sure_ you end up on the other side of the table from them. He will keep making you _choose_. Over and over. Like Palandine. Like it would have been with me...”

_Just look at that boy. Even the smallest and meanest of Cardassians knows how to honor his forbears._

“I’m not choosing _him_. I’m choosing _Cardassia_. It’s the _only_ choice.”

“Oh, but the Order _is_ Cardassia, isn’t that right?” Parmak’s laugh was hollow. “And Tain is the Order. I’m sure he thinks so. And he’ll keep requiring proof, Elim, because he _knows_. He knows just as I do what you _really_ _are_.” Parmak’s eyes pierced even the muzzy mist of the drugs. _“_ I saw it in your face the moment you sat across from me and thought about the children at Anath’or. You, Elim Garak, are a decent man. And there is _nothing_ more dangerous to Enabran Tain than a decent man.”

Garak scoffed, but he looked away, fixing his gaze on Parmak’s reflection as it slithered along the high-shine of the table.

“But Tain really has you, doesn’t he? He crushed that decent man as surely as they crushed those children beneath the walls, and on top of the rubble he’s erected a monument to himself. A frightening likeness, unless you look closely. And he’ll keep chipping away at it, Elim. He’ll keep using you to—”

“ _Enough_ , Parmak!”

His hand struck out as if a separate thing. Kanar rained to the floor, blue light shattered.

Parmak’s eyes on his were walls falling in. Pressing against his chest, circling him in cold, ice-slick stone.…A weight—a crushing weight—just inches from grinding him into nothing.

And then—

Then—

They were gone.

The world was open and gray, and the thought came quiet. Clear. _I’ll need another bottle, then_.

He stood to find a second decanter.

“I can get him out, Elim.”

Parmak’s voice was small but it hit hard as a pebble cracking a glass.

“What?”

“I can get Bashir out. There’s a transport arranged for Bajor: I could get Bashir on it if you—I just need a way to get to him.”

Through the fog, something stirred, sat up, alert.

Garak had heard this before. This unsettling combination of fear and confession and—

A transport arranged for escape to Bajor…

He fell back into his chair.

_You’ve been a fool, Elim Garak_. A _sentimental_ fool.

It took him time to find the words. To believe the truth they outlined. “You’re one of them.”

The sharp edge of the silence and the set of Parmak’s lips confirmed it.

“Of course you are!” He felt rather than heard the laugh, aware, from outside it, how hurt it sounded. You’ve been working with Ghemor. The dissidents.”

“Elim—"

“What was your role, Kelas? To distract me? To get information? Or was the trap going to spring closed one of these days, hmm? Was I going to wake up with a knife at my throat?”

“Elim, nothing between us was part of any plans. Believe me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think I’m _done_ believing you doctors and your talk about innocence and principle and decency…”

Parmak leaned close, set a hand beside Garak’s, though he didn’t dare touch. “Elim, you’re more than welcome to get the answers you need from me. I have _earned_ that consequence. Bashir has _not._ We can still help him.”

The door opened. This time it was Tain’s men, all in black. Through the warp from the pills they slid like shadows.

_This…is Cardassia as it is. As it should be. Even a simple boy knows it._

“Gentlemen—if you would please take Doctor Parmak here into custody.”

Eyes dark with fear met his. Dark with fear but also…pity.

_Where’s the hopelessness? Where’s the harm?_

Now more than ever, he was grateful for the pills. Those eyes—which had always seen him with such frightening clarity—were a weakness he couldn’t afford.

“I will deal with _you_ after I’ve done with Bashir. And then we’ll see if you still think I’m a _decent man_.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. He didn’t say another word.

He had a duty to perform.

 

******************

The room was bright.

As it always did, the light terrorized. Cold white flooded the corners, glinted off the instruments, exposed every point and every edge. Bashir’s skin gleamed with it, and it danced across the sad lines of his brow. At hands and feet, it outlined restraints in gray.

Through it, those eyes found him, bright and thick as Betazoid honey.

“Computer, reduce lights by thirty percent.”

He was relieved to find that the pills kept it distant. Inchoate. Otherwise the hate highlighting that face might have hurt every bit as much as the removal of a scale. The opening of a ridge.

All he truly felt was his own moevement, mechanical, to that familiar seat. He settled into it easily, and it settled around him just the same.

“Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir. Lieutenant, junior grade. S2294-5. Federation _citizen_.”

That voice crackled with contempt, and, as memory circled back on itself, it suspended them, briefly, in its regress.

They would end here, the same as they began.

_Even you can appreciate the elegance, I believe._

Garak blinked, grasping for a firmer hold. On this. On everything. On the data padd in front of him. _Focus, Elim_.

_He needs to answer these questions, s’olat._ Specifics about the functionality of the Icebox, a theoretical question about photonic energy and the resiliency of the morphogenic matrix in a vacuum, details about the Founders’ homeworld…

_I don’t know if he’ll cooperate, Tain. He’s…stubborn._

_I have faith in your persuasive powers, Garak. But, if not, we have other methods to fall back on..._

The mind-probe.

  _Of course I’d rather not share the good doctor with our pointed-eared friends if I can help it, but…_

The Tal Shiar were probably waiting upstairs just dying to get their sallow hands on a Starfleet officer. And once they realized what else he was—the _more_ of the not-quite-human doctor…

No _._ Bashir _would_ answer: neither of them would leave that room until he did. Bashir would give him what he wanted because, unfortunately, Garak knew _precisely_ how to get it.

He swallowed, warming the instrument of his voice. “Come, Doctor. There’s no need for dramatics. I suggest we dispense with the sniping and get straight to the matter at hand: we wouldn’t want the _Ghezur_ to be late for its rendezvous.” _Cooperate, Doctor. Remember…you can go home and end all of this now._

“We both know I’m not going home, Garak. I just wonder how long _you’ve_ known. How much of—“

“I suppose I can’t interest you in a cup of tea?”

As he expected, this earned him a moment of silent, seething hate.

Silence was an invaluable tool for any interrogator, and he let it stretch, used it to measure off the distance between—to emphasize the space that separated.

_This should be easy if you step back, Elim. You know what needs to be done._ The doctor could hate him, yes. _Would_ hate him, of a certainty. But it was necessary. For both their sakes.  

“No? Then let’s begin. The first issue relates to the quantum stasis field generator. I trust you’ve had adequate time to review the research provided.  In your opinion, will the device prevent a changeling from altering form?”

Bashir said nothing. Didn’t have to. That face was as transparent ever, even as it struggled to maintain a blank.

“No, then. How could it be altered to function more effectively?”

“Was it all an act, Garak?”

The sincerity struck hard, rapped loudly at the walls the drugs had raised around him. But they remained solid. “I’m meant to question _you_ , Doctor. I’d think you’d remember how this goes.”

“Was _any_ of it real? The flirtation, the connection, the… poetry?”

_Too real. More real than you can imagine. Than I thought possible._ “No, Doctor. And I’m surprised you still insist on acting as if it were.”

The human’s false smile was somehow worse than any scowl or frown. “Your lies aren’t usually so sloppy, Garak. If it _had_ been an act, why give it up now? Why not use it and pry my secrets from me with oaths and regrets and tender touch…”

 “Perhaps I’ve grown tired of feigning interest in you and your pathetic human _feelings_.”

He watched as pain drew together that soft, brown brow. As it lowered the shoulders a fraction. As it weighed lips in a frown. _No, no. The frown is worse._ “Now, Doctor. The stasis field. How could the design be improved?”

“Do you honestly expect me to answer that?”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. The Founders are as much a threat to the Federation as the Union. More so, perhaps, seeing as Starfleet has already caught their eye.”

“Be that as it may, I won’t be a party to _torture_. Or _genocide_.”

Men of principle. Gods and gettle, he’d have thought the human might have learned this lesson by now. “No one is asking you to turn any screws, Doctor. Or pull any triggers or fire any torpedoes. No one is asking you to do anything other than _answer the question_.” He gave Bashir what he hoped was an obvious look. “ _Hypothesize_.”

_Just say_ something _, Doctor. Something they can believe. I won’t even dig too hard to find out._

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m sure it will work splendidly. How could I possibly improve on such fine Cardassian design?”

That look… _that_ look. That particular arrangement on the human’s face—sarcastic, biting, all confrontation—never failed to stir. Part of him wanted to laugh, part to hiss.

But those parts remained beyond reach, outside the walls.

“What do _you_ think, Garak?”

The question surprised him—a rare event in this room. And an unwelcome one.

“Or do you bother to think at all?”

“What I think is not a subject under discussion today.”

“I suppose you’ll defend _whatever_ the Order does.”

“I’ll defend _Cardassia_ , Doctor.”

“But what if this is the wrong thing ‘for Cardassia,’ Garak? What if it draws you into a war you can’t win? If even one Founder is left alive, think of the vengeance they would exact!”

So he _had_ figured out that this wasn’t merely for defense. Of course he had: the human was too bright for his own good. “All the more reason for you to help us succeed. I doubt a rampaging Founder would stop with Cardassia.”

Though it was clearly not the reaction he’d wanted, Bashir pressed on. “What if, say, Enabran Tain _is_ a changeling?”

The suggestion was a note off-key. Another surprise. That was getting tiresome.

It was a ridiculous claim.

And yet…

“Perhaps they’re attempting to draw Cardassia out—convince the Alpha Quadrant to draw first blood. And everyone on Cardassia will march right along, doing just as they’ve been told. You right behind…”

But it wouldn’t even have to be Tain. Any one of them. Any one of a hundred Tal Shiar. Or Order operatives.Hadn’t he _just_ been observing how _strange_ it all was…how out of character…

_No, Elim._ Down that path lay madness, and the doctor was attempting to clear the way.. _._

 No. He’d long ago stopped asking these questions: he wouldn’t start again now. If Tain _was_ a changeling, he would find out. He’d observe. Investigate.

 “You’re worried, Garak. I see it. Perhaps you’re _not_ sure this time. Perhaps you don’t even want to be here, torturing me.” Bashir leaned forward and, in a upturned moment, Garak saw the human leaning close, drawing an arm around him…

Enough.

He’d allowed the room to invert—the mistake of a green operative, stuttering through his first questioning. He’d violated the first lesson—the prime maxim of interrogation. Never answer questions. In this room, you are not a person, and you do no respond as such: you are a force. An animal. A _thing_ that will not relent until _they_ answer.

“Doctor, when I begin torturing you, you’ll know.”

And just like that, the room righted itself.  

“For now, we’re merely having a conversation. One which I believe has gotten rather far off-topic.”

Bashir’s breathing had picked up. The inevitable reality was tightening in, and he could see the human watching as it closed. Normally, it was a sign of success. Normally, it would please him.

Today, however, he felt _nothing_. A huge, sucking nothing that covered over distant chaos.

“Now, I’ll ask you just once more: how do you believe the design for the stasis generator might be improved?”

And then, in _laket_ he might have found irresistible on any other day, Bashir’s eyes softened, and, through the delicate greenhouse glass, he spied that _strength_. “It must be terrifying.”

 Something that might have been fear stirred, far away. “Doctor, spare me your feeble in—“

“Everything you think, everything you feel, everything you _are_ —it’s all been reshaped to create _this_. This perfect soldier. But perfect soldiers don’t read romantic poetry, do they? Perfect soldiers don’t grow orchids or love traitors or _kiss_. You’re—you’re every bit as _constructed_ as I am, but they don’t let you forget. Your true self is still in there, watching—“

The thought froze, exposed in the light.

Garak had pulled the CPP activator from his pocket and set it, wordless yet deafening, on the table between.

“Let me assure you, Doctor. You know _nothing_ about my ‘true self.’” He touched the activator, ran a finger down its length. As he had the human’s hand. Last night. Had that been just last night?

The pills dissolved whatever feeling breeched the walls before he could register it as more than a twinge.

“Now, I’ll ask just once more before you get to learn about my ‘true self’ in very clear detail. How can the stasis generator be improved?”

Bashir blinked. That moment of tenderness was gone, and he watched not Garak but the device. Garak’s hand caressing it. _He’s remembering too…_

He couldn’t help the words—couldn’t help reaching back to touch that moment. “Julian. _Please_. There’s no reason not to tell me now. This doesn’t have to go further. We can finish this, say goodbye, forget everything.”

Even as he said it, he cursed himself. _Poor choice of words, Elim_. If anything could remind him—if anything could bring the previous night into even sharper, more horrifying contrast—it was the notion of _forgetting_.

Whatever door Bashir had tried to open slammed shut. He slammed shut.

Garak would break him open, of course, but there would be pain and plenty of it. _For us both_.

“I don’t think so, _Elim_.” Each sound in his name was spat, as if it tasted foul on those beautiful lips. “I think you’re going to have to press that button. And I think you’re going to have to keep pressing it. Because it’s going to take a _very_ long time for me to give you the satisfaction of breaking me.”

Though the words were brave, Garak could scent it now. The piquant musk of fear—of sweat and adrenaline and…

He pulled his hand away from the activator and sat back.

The room seemed to breathe out, and, in the downbeat, he forced himself to take in every detail. The flash of confusion. The tense creak of muscles. The pulse shivering at the neck. Great red death, the human was beautiful.

 “What is it, Inquisitor? Lost your nerve? Having some ‘pathetic feelings’ of your own?”

He felt that, a white-hot pain as it hit. Even the pills couldn’t shield him from it.

“It’s not as easy now, is it? It’s hard to look in the eyes and do it after…” Bashir swallowed the rest.

_This is going to hurt, lis’sea_.

He had been eight, and Mila had braced him to set his bone after a fall from the garden wall.  At first she’d had nothing but admonitions and reminders of all the times she’d warned him, but then, at that moment of pain, she’d cradled him. Held his hand. _Don’t try to block it out, lis’sea. Feel it. Think about it. Think of all the pain that has ever been borne. This will be so small compared to that…_

He braced himself, meeting Bashir’s eyes, not blocking it out. “You misunderstand me, human.”

Bashir stilled at the word. At the look that met him.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time in this room it’s that you men of principle can be _very_ stubborn. With a righteous cause and a heart full of rage, I imagine you could withstand an inordinate amount of pain. You are, for a human, _quite_ strong, I think. Deceptively so.”

Bashir had no clever riposte. His breathing was loud and uneven. He was well and truly afraid.

_Think of all the pain that has ever been borne…_

“However, you men of principle have one _glaring_ weakness.”

Garak let his eye and his hand travel to the console and press the button there.

Bashir blinked in confusion, trembling with shock when no pain came.

_Oh, Doctor. Give it a moment…_

The door opened, and Garak watched it spread over that ingenuous face. Terror cracked across it, and it became a mask—a study in horror.

They set Parmak in a chair beside Bashir. A bloody bruise already circled the man’s eye. He must have resisted...

From beneath the haze, something stirred. It was contained.

“You…Garak, you couldn’t…”

“Now I believe you might begin to understand my ‘true self’.”

The two doctors looked at one another for only a moment. It seemed all Bashir could manage before he turned his eyes back.

There it was. _That_ was terror.

“Garak, how can you possibly do this? How is _this_ ‘for Cardassia’?”

“Perhaps that’s the sort of question we should direct towards Doctor Parmak here.” He waited until Parmak lifted his head, turned his dark and fearful eyes forward. “It seems he’s been doing his own work ‘for Cardassia’, isn’t that right, Kelas?”

Parmak didn’t speak. Each breath came with a shrill wheeze, body shuddering. He must have resisted Tain’s men far longer than Garak would have expected. The man had steel in him—something Garak had never seen. _What sort of_ vor’nek _have I held close all these years?_

Tain was right after all. Sentiment _blinded._

He closed his eyes and then opened them deliberately, as if proving to himself that he saw clearly _now_. “So you see, I was scheduled to interrogate our doctor friend as soon as we finished here, but I thought why wait? Why not stew two _zabo_ in a single pot?”

 “Elim, don’t do this to him.”

“Parmak, as noble as that sentiment might be, I’d save your concern for yourself.”

“Don’t bother trying to reason with him, Parmak.” Despite speaking to Kelas, Bashir’s eyes never left his. They scourged. “‘ _He is grown from man to dragon : he has wings; he's more than a creeping thing._ ’”

As Bashir recited, Garak made a show of running a hand over the instruments between them, deciding.

“‘ _When he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading_ ….’”

“ _Coriolanus_ again, Doctor? Is it wise to torture your torturer?”  He allowed a moment before he held the scalpel up for both men to see. “Or should I say ‘ _Mine ears against your suits are stronger than thy gates against my force…_ ’”

Eyes turned from his. The room stank of fear, and he knew. Reflexes honed as sharp as that scalpel told him. Now was the time. Now was the time to chase fear to an end…

_Think of all the pain that’s ever been borne…_

He stalked around the table, removing the barrier between, until things were closer. Intimate. Unavoidable. “I will ask you _once more_ , Doctor Bashir. How can the quantum stasis field generator be improved?”

“Elim… _please_.” Parmak didn’t look up, but his words cut through.

“Direct your pleading to Bashir. He’s the one in control now.”

Turmoil twisted every inch of the human’s body. Heat radiated from him in waves.

“Come now, Doctor. Is a little theoretical tidbit worth this suffering? How much does some lofty, invisible ideal—light as a feather—weigh against a man’s very real, very _present_ pain?”

“Doctor Bashir,” Parmak wheezed. “I do hope you will follow your conscience _regardless_ of what—“

“Let me explain what will happen next, Doctor.” He held out the scalpel: light licked along the curve of its blade. “I will start by removing the first scale of Doctor Parmak’s neckridge.” Delicately, he tapped the scale where Parmak’s neck and jaw met with the scalpel’s cold point. Beneath the metal, Parmak flinched.

The vague, abject noise from Bashir connected. Turned something.

_Think of all the pain that has ever been borne…_

“As you’ve no doubt learned, the neckridges are particularly sensitive areas for us. The removal of scales here is, in my observation, roughly equivalent to the breaking of fingers. Except, of course, that there are _many_ more scales, so the pain can go on for some time. And has a tendency to…build.”

“Garak …please…you don’t have to—"

“I’m far from finished, Doctor.” He crushed Bashir’s voice under his. He couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t allow it. “After the neckridges, I will move on to…other ridges. More sensitive. And after that—”

“He’ll open the ridges altogether.”

 It was Parmak who spoke. His voice wavered, almost incomprehensible at first, but something at its root remained unshaken. Solid.

_Beautiful_ , a whisper wriggled, worming its way through.

“He’ll open the neckridges, then the ridges along the hips. Then those around the _chuva_. Standard procedure. I may have to be resuscitated after the neckridges are flayed, but…”

Garak leaned back on the table, watching Parmak as if seeing him for the first time.

“I know this script: I’ve seen it played out on hundreds of corpses—“  The words bunched into a cough, and Garak fought a sudden absurd urge to bring him a glass of water.

“Don’t answer his questions, Bashir. This is how they win. And I won’t give them another victory.”

The quiet twisted. It had a dangerous quality, though Garak couldn’t have said with certainty who was in danger.  

Parmak’s eyes were on him, and he could almost hear the howling Trench, the drip of water, the shivering of breath.

Except now, there were other eyes.

And they closed in on him, tight, squeezing at his defenses.  Why couldn’t they have designed the wire to protect from this? Why didn’t the pills keep the door from slamming shut? From closing out the light?

“You don’t want to do this, do you, Garak?” Bashir’s voice was quiet, almost…almost as it had been. Hiding behind the fear and the hate, he sensed it—a thread of light. “I can see it in your eyes.”

_Recite, s’olat._

He pressed those traitorous eyes shut.

He didn’t struggle to remember anymore. He knew the words by heart.

“I can see a demonstration is going to be required.”

The edge of the blade made a curious scraping noise when laid against the bottom of the first scale. Garak had often thought it sounded like a bow poised upon a string.

Beneath him, Parmak trembled. “They won’t spare him, Elim. You must know that. Tain will never let him live.”

“One last time, Doctor. The generator?”

His voice was far away now, acting of its own accord. The rest of him was trapped, walls and drugs and eyes pressing in.

“Garak—I—please. The focal radiation—”

“Doctor Bashir, _don’t_.”

Parmak looked up at Garak, eyes full of tears. His entire body quaked. At the horizon of blade and scale, a drop of dark blood blossomed.

“I can’t save you from it this time, Elim.” He stretched his neck, as if presenting the scale for view, and whispered. It echoed against memory. “But _you,_ Elim… _you_ can save _him_.”

It was a whisper, but it exploded.

Everything had crashed, plaster crumbling, the sound of metal creaking under the strain of the building as it tumbled. He’d felt the weight descend and braced himself for pain that didn’t come. Everything had frozen. Somehow, though rubble entombed him, remnants of wall surrounded him like a shell, holding the crushing blow only a few inches from his nose.

_A bomb. It must have been a bomb._

In the distance—beneath silence and stillness and imminent death—there had been a thread of light.

He’d lain there three days before the rustle had begun, shifting above him. He’d thought it was the end. Around him, his tiny makeshift sanctuary groaned, ready to surrender at last.

_Forgive me,_ he’d whispered. To himself. To no one. _Forgive me for everything_.

When they’d pulled him out, the light had burned. Sunlight as red and white and violent as death.

But it wasn’t death. He _survived_.

Parmak’s eyes burned him just the same, and he blinked violently against the glare, as it shifted off of him—the crashing weight of everything the pills had been holding back.

What had happened?

_He crushed that decent man as surely as they crushed those children beneath the walls…_

Parmak had dragged him to the surface, and he wasn’t going back. Couldn’t.

The scalpel clattered as it hit the floor.

_No… I can save you_ both _._

His hand shook as he wiped away the single drop of blood gently, keeping his voice low. “You said…you had a way to get Bashir out?”

Parmak swallowed, still shaken, words coming in fits and starts. “We—we have a transport…arranged, but—”

“The shuttle for Ghemor and the Bajoran?”

 “Y—yes.”

“The Order knows.” He shook his head and glanced between the two doctors nervously. “Is there anything else? Any other way?” His heart raced so fast, he could barely feel the individual beats: it had become a single frantic vibration.

Parmak watched. Hesitated.

_He knows a way, Elim. He knows, but he doesn’t trust you_. “Please, Kelas. I can help.”

Even as he said it, he heard its brittle sound. Another cold stratagem from Elim Garak, the Order agent, who, just a moment before, had been prepared to slice him open for the State.

And now…

Now what?

His heart fluttered, broke, fluttered again.

Parmak’s voice was little more than a breath. “It…It wouldn’t be pleasant, but I could have him smuggled out. Maybe.”

His mind worked on without him, fitting pieces together. Understanding.

He _had_ been blind. This man had blinded him. “The Aspect.”

Damp tracks shone across Parmak’s face, traced silver in the light. It looked like a Hebitian death mask, beautiful in its grief.

 “Amar was one of you, too. A dissident.” They’d been using the gun runners as a front to smuggle dissidents all across the Union. _It was how they got those students out. And Lang. How they never seem to be penned in…_ They were using them the same as the children at Anath’or.

Parmak gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Amar bribed the shuttleport authorities rather obscenely. Those ships aren’t checked.”

With intel like this, he could _destroy_ the dissident movement—annihilate it entirely. It would earn him the Order itself. A place beside Tain, at last.

It took only a moment in their eyes to see it.

That future was rubble under his feet.

“How?”

Parmak’s face betrayed the first hint of trust. “Just…be sure we’re sent to Block H. We—I know someone working in Block H.”

Some dull reflex in him fired, wanting to ask, but he shook it off like a remnant of plaster.

“Block H,” he agreed. “Just…make sure it works, Kelas. And not just for _him_. For you, too. I need you both _gone_.” _I need you both to live_.

Someone has to _live_.

The light of the room shivered, and he blinked again. Something wet fell to his neck.

“Elim…you’re…”

He touched his cheek in disbelief. Stumbling back to lean on the table, he ran the mix of blood and tears across his fingertips.

 The chuckle broke free, too, manic and dawning. “ _‘It is no little thing to make mine eyes to sweat compassion_ …’”

He heard Bashir’s laugh echo his, tilted and mad and wrapped in a sob. “Garak, I…Garak, look at me.”

He did as he was told, turning his traitorous, tear-wrapped eyes to Bashir as if to the heavens in prayer.

And it met him, as if for the first time. That face, those lips.  Oh, as last sights went, this was a good one. If he could think of nothing else at the end, this would do.

“Garak…come with us _._ ”

For a moment—a light-drenched moment of lawlessness—he considered it. Smuggled out on a shuttle. To the Federation, maybe, with the doctor. He could be a gardener. Or a tailor. Have a shop and make sketches. Trade these tools for simpler ones. He’d always been quite handy with a needle…

But his cool, Order-trained center knew that thought for what it was: the conjuration of a man staring death in its eyes.

If the two doctors had any chance of escape, it would fall to him to distract Tain. And the Order. Otherwise, they would be rounded up with pitiful ease.

_Think of all the pain that’s ever been borne…_

He took a step closer, and almost—almost—allowed their knees to brush. “No, Doctor. I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you at the shuttleport today after all. I do hope you’ll…” He forced a small smile. “Forgive me.”

Their eyes locked, blue on brown. “I…Garak …” Words dissolved.

“Don’t fail me now, Doctor. You must have _some_ cutting reply…?”

A smile, broken and framed by tears. Though his hand was restrained, Bashir held it up, palm outward.

Ah, yes. _Cutting, indeed._ The only reply left was _goodbye_ …

Trembling, Garak touched the human’s palm to his.

Then, to his amazement, warm fingers slid, uncertain, between. They did not grip, they did not twine as they had, but they rested in that negative space. Gentle. Trying to understand.

He looked to Parmak, who was crying, too, silently.

Afraid, the question written in open desperation across his face, Garak offered his other palm.

Light stretched—and time.

And Parmak nodded, gray hand opening in acceptance. In a way utterly different—more knowing, more wary—he twined their fingers as well.

Garak found himself on his knees between them, fingers laced, bracing for the pain. Forcing himself to feel it.

_Forgive me. Forgive me for everything._

The light was bright. And awful.

It terrorized.

Like freedom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh dear, am I biting my nails over this chapter. There will be little sleep tonight... A lot has been working towards this climax, and I am just *praying* that the repetitive epic-ness of it works for someone other than me!
> 
> The good news is that I have already finished and (mostly) finalized the last two chapters. I will post chapters 12 & 13 together next weekend since Chapter 13 is really more of an...epilogue, I guess? But I do want to give this chapter a little time to breathe... 
> 
> I really, REALLY hope this hits home! We are almost at the end, and, I am...very excited for everyone to get there with me. I am so pleased with how it finished up. Hopefully, you still feel like joining me! 
> 
> Thanks as always to anyone who has kudosed, commented, or left tumblr messages...I continue to be overwhelmed by your generosity and your kind words. And please do continue to do so as you feel moved! 
> 
> And to those of you who have regularly commented on each chapter, just know...you are AWESOME and I think of you when I am writing and editing. For real. I wonder what you will say about a line/how you will react...you have all been such a big part of this with me, and I don't know if I would have had the fortitude to continue without you! I haven't written anything in so long, and having this kind of support has been...everything! <3 
> 
> /sappiness
> 
> And, of course, please feel free to say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8)!


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter Twelve_

He watched it from the vantage of face on propped hand, rivulets of steam curling up, up, up, before spreading into nothingness. No, not nothingness: first law of thermodynamics and all that. Not gone but _different_. Rearranged.

The smell gave the game away, though. Earthy and sharp and proof positive that those tendrils still hung in the air, unseen. He took another tentative sniff. It was a good smell. Before all that had happened, it had reminded him of home.

_That’s here, Julian. It reminds you of here._

Counselor Telani had said the best way to reintegrate was to set yourself one goal every day: one small thing that would help reacclimate you. Help you negotiate how your new self would exist and experience your old life.

Today his challenge was Tarkalean tea.

He hadn’t had any tea since—

_No_. This was about home. It wouldn’t do to start thinking of Cardassia again.

He allowed himself another deep draw of the scent. _You’re home, Julian._

His hands bracketed the warm ceramic, reveling in its heat. Since he’d returned, he noticed that occasionally the air had a bite. His body seemed to have adjusted to the oppressive temperatures of Cardassia, and now the occasional cold touch of metal railing or wall sent a shiver up his spine. _It will take time to normalize, Doctor Bashir. Give it time._

Odd that they’d arranged for counseling _now._ After all, it wasn’t the first time in his three years that he’d been through something potentially traumatic. Hell, it wasn’t even the _tenth_. And each of those times, Starfleet merely mentioned the availability of holosessions with the Deep Space Mental Health Corps. An afterthought. To his knowledge, no one ever took advantage.

 But it wasn’t a suggestion this time. It was the locked door between him and the Infirmary.  

_Honestly, Counselor, I think I’d have a much easier time of it if I could just get back to work—_

_Give it_ time _, Doctor. Going back now would jeopardize your recovery and, possibly, your patients’ lives. You’ve been through torture, manipulation--_

It must have been something he’d said during the debrief with Command. His voice must have shaken at the wrong times, eyes darted too much. Perhaps it was the hedging around particular characters of the tale. The held-back quality of his voice…

He’d been willing to risk it, just as he’d told Tain. Through shaky breaths he’d told them—that room full of lined-faces and admiral’s bars—the thrust of what he’d seen in those schematics. The Cardassians had attack plans. Weapon designs. They had their eyes on the Founders _._

Nothing had come of the revelation beyond grave noises and pointed questions. _What was their purpose? How detailed were the schematics? We’d like you to speak with our Science Team at Intelligence—_

He’d feigned ignorance. Memory loss. Stuttered meaningless ideas.

Tain’s smile lodged itself in him, torture ex post facto.

_What do you think Starfleet Intelligence does with all that information you put down so prettily in your medical reports?_

So they’d prescribed counseling, twice a week. Telani was a lovely woman, but he couldn’t tell her the full story either. About the weapons. About his house arrest. About…

Sometimes he wondered. Sometimes he heard the suspcions in that familiar voice, framed by blue eyes. _Perhaps Starfleet Command will get those secrets from you one way or another, Doctor..._ Sometimes, as he sat across from her, projected in her hard, black chair on the holosuite, he wondered: how different is this, really? Sitting across from someone trying to pry out your secrets…

_Secrets._

It had been tricky at first, pulling the weight of it back over his shoulders. In his time on Cardassia, the well-trained muscles holding it in place had grown lax, and he’d let himself grow. Expand.

His goal yesterday had been a game of darts with the Chief—one in which he didn’t try to avoid the pity in the other man’s eyes. He’d let himself have one bullseye—just one—before he laid out a more believable pattern of misses.

It reminded him of the stories his mother read to him as a boy: the _djinn_ and their bottles. Julian squeezed himself back inside.

Though how long his secret would go on, he couldn’t know. Did Tain know that he’d told Starfleet? Did Tain care? Or was he planning something worse? Waiting for Julian to take a step off the station before he brought him, once again, to that washed white room?

One of the dabo girls touched his shoulder on her way past and threw him a pretty little smile. The light touch drew no flinch. _See, Julian? You’re already starting to blend again._ Soon he’d be as seamless and hidden as the steam.

The smile he shot back was not genuine, but it was closer. Closer. _Give it time._

He lifted the tea to his lips, blew away the heat, and allowed himself a sip.

It tasted wrong. The sweetness was cloying, the blend weak.

Well, perhaps he didn’t have to reacclimate to _everything_. Perhaps he could try a different sort of tea. Or something different altogether. Betazoids drank a spiced infusion called _ponala_ that had been stupidly popular when he was at the Academy. Maybe it could be that for now.

“Doctor, are you sure I can’t get you a _real_ drink?” Quark had paused from scurrying around behind the bar to direct a look of concern at him. Not the kind of concern he saw when Jadzia or Miles looked at him. This was concern that the doctor’s morose presence might drive away potential customers. Even Morn hadn’t tried to start a conversation. “You look like you could use something with a little more kick to it.”

He tapped absently on the bar. “Do you carry _ponala_?”

“ _Ponala_? No one’s asked for that in at least ten—”

“Nevermind.” The last thing he needed was a reminder of how long since he’d been at the Academy. “I’m good with this for now.”

“There’s a holosuite available for the mid-afternoon slot today. Just got in _Return to Risa XVI_ if you’re looking for something to—”

“Not today, Quark.”

His tone was that of a bartender resigned to a nurse-one-drink-for-three-hours sort of patron. “Suit yourself.”

Julian had only come to Quark’s for the open air. He’d tried to sit with the tea in the privacy of his quarters, but, ever since the return trip, he’d found open spaces far preferable to the close quiet of his living room. His bedroom. He often walked the Promenade until late enough that only Odo crossed his path. Walked until exhausted enough not to care about the close and the dark.

_I’m sorry, Doctor Bashir. This may be…distressing._ Parmak had apologized as he helped him into the storage container. _I know it’s a bit cramped, but it should only be about thirty-six hours._ He’d left him with a disruptor, but he’d had no food to offer.

_What do you mean—you’re coming with me. Garak said—_

_Bashir, forgive me. Elim sent you away. And me. He’s circumvented to Order. I know what he’s going to try to do next, and I—_

Julian had understood. He’d nodded and motioned for Parmak to close the lid.

For thirty-six hours he’d sat entombed, listening to the muffled sound of the gangsters piloting and the inescapable throb of aging impulse engines.

Thirty-six hours wondering if Parmak had gotten there in time.

_You’re home, Julian, but it came at a price…_

“Doctor Bashir.”

 He looked up in time to see her cursory nod. “Major.”

They sat in a silence he wished could be comfortable but proved more distant than anything else.

_Just like on the freighter._ Though, of course, he hadn’t known at the time. Kira and Ghemor had been brought into Obsidian Order detention only an hour after he was, he’d learned later.

Someone had ordered them moved to Cell Block H.  

Bashir knew who that someone must have been.  It hurt to think it again.

And so they’d sat, he and Ghemor and Kira, all in an unspeaking line of crates, tiny cells lined up like barstools.

“You’re, um—you’re looking more yourself,” he attempted, wondering if the levity would be a help or a hurt these days.

To his relief, she laughed. “Yeah, the surgeon in Jalanda did good work. Although there are still times when I look in the mirror and something about it feels wrong.” She looked deep into her drink as if searching the reflection there too. “I don’t know if it’s the Cardassian or the Bajoran face that seems false.”

“They played with your mind. It’s…what they do.” He tried to keep the words at a distance.

“Not all of them. Ghemor, he’s a good man.” The words were almost hushed: they still didn’t come easy. “I think—there must some good people in his movement.”

“The dissident who helped us escape certainly was.” _Wherever you are Parmak, I hope you got out._

“And your Obsidian Order guard? Ghemor tells me he let you go.”

“He wasn’t….good, exactly. Just…” _Vrakat_. He couldn’t think of a Standard word, so he let the thought drift up. Scatter into nothingness.

An uncomfortable shift in her seat. “Doctor, I…I just finished seeing Tekeny off, and he gave me this.” She produced an ochre box inset with the symbol of the Union. The color, the shape, the design—every inch of it was unmistakably Cardassian. “Apparently it was sent to him through some back channel, and the coding in the message was that used by the dissidents. It was meant for you.”

“What—what is it?” He knew she didn’t know, but he didn’t want to take it. His hands were unsteady.

“We’re not sure. I scanned it for anything dangerous. Seems harmless enough.” Realizing he wasn’t going to reach for it, she set it on the bar in front of him. “I…I should probably have taken it to the Commander. There’s probably some Starfleet protocol, but…I thought it might be...”

Another word dissolved in the air. But he caught its scent just the same. _I thought it might be_ personal.

How much did she know? How much did she suspect? If she knew more of his story—through Parmak and Ghemor—she hadn’t said anything to anyone. And for that he would be eternally grateful.

“Not going to open it?”

He should have wondered. It could have been many things. Some parting shot from the Order. A lingering threat from Tain. Loral sending on his effects so hastily left behind.

But he knew. It was about Garak.

“Not here. Not…yet.”

He forced another attempt at his tea. Just as bad but now tepid. His new self wasn’t going to adjust to this, he could tell.

Counselor Telani would be disappointed. “Are they making you see the Starfleet shrink?”

“Oh, they tried. But I, uh, I visited Oran Monastery and spoke with Vedek Beru. She helped Bajorans suffering from Cardassian brainwashing during the Occupation. We’ve been talking and praying together—Starfleet accepted it as an alternative.”

“And has it…has it been helpful?”

She gave him a sad look. “The Prophets have set my feet on a path, and I’m following it.”

He felt an absence that only ached in moments like these. Moments of loss. Of doubt. Believers like Kira had a center. Life could spin them in any direction, and they would always return, balletic, to equilibrium.

He had only lukewarm tea and secrets. “You’re lucky to have them. The Prophets.”

“I’m sure Vedek Beru would be happy to work with you, too.”

A few years ago he might have scoffed. He knew better now. “To be honest, the only path I’m interested in following is the one that leads back to the Infirmary. I don’t think I’ll feel at home until they put me back to work.”

She met his eyes, just as she had when they’d unfolded her from the crate. They’d met each other from behind changed faces, and he saw the change there again. _Cardassia did that to us, didn’t it?_ He came back a little less forgiving; she a little more.

“I’ll talk to Sisko. See what we can do.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

She took a deep breath and surprised him with a smile. She always seemed a different person when she smiled. “Do you find yourself missing those damned…what were they called? The forsaken things that chirped all night long?”

“Night-locusts?”

“Prophets, yes! They nearly drove me insane while I was there…but now I’m having trouble falling asleep without the sound.”

He laughed. Not the forced laughter he’d been using for weeks, designed to set others at ease—to prove he was okay. This was a _real_ laugh. It felt strange. And nice.

“I went through the database for almost an hour last night trying to find a recording that would approximate it,” she admitted.

He’d done the same thing several days ago. “You, uh, you might try the sound file for the Rigelian Singing Beetle. Not _quite_ right, but if you’re desperate…”

“Maybe I’ll…maybe I’ll give that a try.” She gripped his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Isn’t it odd how sometimes we miss even the most…difficult things…when they’re gone?”

He felt his smile deepen into something more genuine. More settled. Perhaps this—this place and these people—were _his_ center. Perhaps they would pull him back.

The new him.

“Quark?”

“Mmm, Doctor? Change your mind about that holosuite?”

“No, but I—I wonder if you’d get me a red leaf tea this time?”

Kira gave him a nod as she left the bar.

“And…have you heard of something called _cake-and-ghevet_?”

 

*****************************

It took him two weeks to work up the courage.

He’d set the box on the shelf and waited. Waited for what, he wasn’t sure. Some imagined future date where its contents could be taken cooly, objectively. Where whatever news it contained would be a mere epilogue to a story already complete.

But as the days wore on, he realized that story would never feel complete. In life, stories only had one ending, and he hadn’t gotten there yet. _Repetitive epic_ _indeed_.

So he’d given it until his last day before work began.

Kira had pressed Sisko; Sisko had pressed Command. They’d compromised on continued counseling for a further six months, with regular clearances for duty from Telani.

And today was the day.

He’d carried it to the Replimat. His quarters had been too quiet. Too somber. Too inviting of a scene. Somehow the privacy felt oppressive, as if whatever he learned would be yet another secret to bear.

He’d considered Quark’s, but it was packed with a surprisingly racucous party of vedeks slated to speak at the temple for some holiday or other.

The Klingon restaurant was out of the question.

So he’d ended up at one of the Promenade tables, cup of tea in hand and the ochre box sitting in front of him as if in challenge.

He pressed his finger to the Union symbol set in its lid, and, after a brief scan of orange light and a loud click, the clasp at the seam popped open.

_Alright, Bashir. You’re sitting on the Promenade so do try to control the shaking…_

He allowed himself a sip of tea and a very full breath before lifting the lid.

Inside were three items: the first was a padd. He removed it, trying hard not to see the next items.

_You saw it…_

He ignored it, activating the padd. Green letters crawled across black.

> Doctor Bashir,
> 
> I hope this finds you, and I hope you do not take further communication amiss. I felt it was my duty to inform you, and it didn’t seem a message to pass on through Legate Ghemor.
> 
> I can think of no better way to say it than in clearest, simplest terms: Elim Garak is dead.

He’d known: he’d known that’s what the words would say, but, still, the finality of those stark green letters squeezed the breath from him.

He read the rest in a daze, not truly absorbing more than broad strokes. Parmak declined to give specifics, saying Garak would have preferred privacy in the matter. All he deigned to reveal was that Garak had made it to his home in Torr where he had taken his own life. The Central Command had seized his assets and declared him a traitor to the State.

Parmak then detailed his own escape, which had been arduous and relied on the particular bravery of several of his dissident contacts sheltering him. He’d waited in hiding a further four days before a transport off-world was arranged.

He was safe now, though of course he did not say where.

> I hope you find yourself surrounded by people who care for you and who will help you settle back into life. I remember too well how unsettling the first months home can be. I hope you will count me among those who care for you and if, at any time, you need my help, you can contact me through Tekeny Ghemor. I will offer whatever assistance is in my power.
> 
> I also hope, though it may not be possible, that you can find it in your heart to remember Elim Garak with something softer than contempt: there will be few of us who do. I can say with certainty that he loved you, and that he sacrificed for us something he would never have done otherwise. Nothing can excuse the horrors Elim perpetrated, but I do believe, in the end, he proved himself to be the man I knew he could be. I hope you will agree.
> 
> I have included two items along with this message, both of which Loral passed along before I left home. The first is yours, and the second was something I believe Elim would have wanted you to have.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Kelas Parmak

He let himself read it again, slowly, trying to accept.

Parmak had survived: Garak was dead. Perhaps that was an ending after all.

Taking a moment to breathe against the leaden pain in his chest, he turned back to the box.

The next item was small and white: the carving made for him by a Cardassian girl he’d never met. He held it up, garish lights of the Replimat bouncing off its surface in a riot. His face reflected back at him, grimmer. Older.

_You see, Bashir, you’ve made a difference here._

It would have a hallowed spot beside his other reminder, soft and brown, of what it meant to heal.

The last item was wrapped in a length of sheer red cloth. He remembered something like it from their trip out on Union Day. A symbol of death. Of mourning.  He unwound it and set it across the table gently.

Somehow, he’d known what he would find beneath. The tacky, filigreed font merely confirmed. _The Collected Works of William Shakespeare_.

Just last week, Telani had paused in the middle of a session, tapping a stylus on the arm of her chair.

_Tell me about the man who held you captive, Doctor Bashir._ She’d checked the padd in her lap. _‘Elim Garak.’ Did you like him?_

_Did I_ like _him? I don’t know. He…he was interesting. Clever. We talked quite a bit._

_What did you talk about?_

He’d hesitated. This wasn’t something he wanted to share. With anyone. Ever. _Books, mostly._

_Books?_ She hadn’t bothered to hide her surprise. Rather unprofessional to his mind.

_Yes. Cardassian novels. Shakespeare._

_Why books?_

_I don’t know. I never really thought._

She’d nodded in the sterotype of a therapist. It was a tactic, he knew, to encourage him toward _more._

So he’d tried to oblidge. _The topic was…comfortable. Engaging. Something we had in common._

_A way to…connect?_

The book stared up at him.

He peeled it open, and it fell, naturally, to a page turned down. Page one of _The Tragedy of Coriolanus_.

The smile was shaky. He flipped again and found more. Margins crowded with scrawls in Cardasi.

_Notes. He took notes._

He continued flipping forward, every page densely annotated.

And suddenly he knew precisely how he was going to mourn.

He turned back to the first page and started reading.

He made his way through each scene in its entirety before returning to decipher whatever thoughts Garak had scrawled in response. Some were allusions to other works Julian had never read. Some were derisive snorts about myopic human philosophies. Some were beyond his ability to translate. A few—the most enjoyable ones—were those that appreciated a particular bit of phrasing or a well-outlined metaphor.

As he worked through them, the script took on a familiar voice. The rise and fall of it played perfectly in his mind, almost as if the other man sat across the table, sipping kanar and providing commentary—sorties in a battle that could now occur only in his mind.

His eye caught on a line circled several times.

>  Despising the city, thus I turn my back: There is a world elsewhere.

Beside it the Cardasi particle denoting a question.

He ran over the words several times, finger tracing the spined characters as he mumbled the line to himself. “What is it you didn’t understand, Mister Garak?”

_I’d have thought it was obvious, Doctor._

When he lifted his eyes from the book, the ghost smiled back, ridges outlined by memory and the glow of the Promenade.

Sitting across from one another again.

“You aren’t— _weren’t_ —the obvious sort, Garak.”

_Hmm. Then allow me, as usual, to simplify things for you, Doctor._ He smirked. _I couldn’t understand how a true patriot could ever accept exile. There is no ‘world elsewhere.’_

“Well, it was exile or death. Not much of a choice.”

Garak looked unimpressed _. An easy choice, I’d say. And a true patriot, exiled or not, certainly wouldn’t turn around and lead the enemy back to the city gates. That’s pettiness, not patriotism._

“That’s part of what makes it a tragedy, Garak. It’s his tragic flaw.”

_Tragic flaw?_

“In human tragedies, the hero almost always has some flaw—some fault in himself—that makes his downfall inevitable.”

_I thought humans ascribed the tragic to that benighted concept of ‘bad luck.’_

“There’s no meaning in a story of simple ‘bad luck.’”

_Some might argue there’s little enough meaning to Shakespeare as it is._

 “Some might. Some very _stubborn_ and _irritating_ few.”

Smiles reflected, twinned, across the table.

_Well then, Doctor, what_ is _the meaning, then? What am I meant to understand is our hero’s ‘tragic flaw’?_

“His inability to control his anger. His vitriol. ‘What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent’ and all that.”

A raised eyeridge. _Are you_ sure _that’s his tragic flaw, Doctor?_

 Something inside skipped a beat, came up short. “Of course. What else could it be?”

Several seconds echoed with the clink of glass and the muted tap of feet along the Promenade.

_Why, his compassion, of course._

Julian felt the shift, everything reframed.

_If our hero hadn’t succumbed to his wife and mother’s pleas for mercy, he and his army would have won. It would have been a tale of_ victory _not tragedy._

The thought trembled across him, taut, as if across the skin of a drum.

“Garak…I. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this—”

A hand on his stopped the words and the tremble. _But that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Because he would certainly have made the same choice every time._ Blue eyes shone. _As would I, my dear doctor._

A finger stroked the space between his.

_As would I._

Julian blinked the tears from his eyes, and, just like that, he was alone again.

He picked up the book and continued reading.

He continued, but he knew: the story was never going to be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this ending hits home whether one is familiar with _Coriolanus_ or not. 
> 
> On to the conclusion.


	13. Chapter 13

_Epilogue_

Doctor Bashir—

I have worked at this letter for months now. I have been the consummate gardener, tilling and pruning and, at times, removing the plant entire to make room for something hardier or more beautiful. Sometimes I feel that this letter, like a garden, will never be finished. The roots have dug in, and they will continue in directions unseen. Whether you will ever see it in full bloom, I do not know.

Kelas says I’m a fool to have begun it at all. And selfish besides, he adds, if ever I should send it. Kelas is usually right: one of the truths I’ve learned to accept here in exile.

And I _am_ exiled, Doctor, despite what you’ve been told. The deception of my death was necessary for a time. You were most certainly being monitored by the Order, and any remaining connection to me would have proven a liability to us both. And, forgive me, but you’re a curious man, Doctor. You would have gone searching for clues.

Is it vain of me to think so? That you would have been curious as to my fate? Or was I, in the end, a mere butcher after all? Something best forgotten?

These are just a few of the questions I’m left with in the paradise Kelas has found us. I am left with very little but questions.

And time. Perhaps idleness is what brings me to continue writing a letter I may never send.

One thing I have found in my exile, however, is a distaste for certain deceptions. This little paradise is sunny and lush and open, and there is little dark space for lies to thrive. The cheapness and the moldering edges of the many lies I’ve bought and sold throughout my life show clearer to me each day. So let me exchange some lies for a few truths.

I owe my life to Kelas Parmak. He forced me to choose the torture of living when all I wanted was the ease of death.

I do not know if it is a debt I shall ever repay.

I begin to feel, these days, as if I owe many debts I can never repay.

For four days before we made our escape, Parmak’s fellow dissidents hid us. Fed us. Moved us from safehouse to safehouse. The risks they took in doing so were staggering, and, though Kelas has never said so directly, I can hear it in the mournful tones of his recollection. Some were found out. Some lost their lives.

It is an altogether humbling experience to owe your life to those who, had the board arrayed itself differently, you would have dissected with a smile.

I owe Loral, too. She risked all by planting the evidence I supplied and by lying to Central Command. That debt, I can only begin to repay. My career and life have always been uncertain: it was the nature of my work. Plans to provide for her and her grandchildren have long been arranged. They have come to fruition, even after the seizing of my assets, and I hope that the Lorals are safe and enjoying what little I could provide.

Not, of course, that any of it fooled Tain. Tain knew. Just as I know that he expended every resource and life he could spare trying to find me. I spent our first months waiting, sleeping with a disruptor at my side.

For some reason, Doctor, I still do.

Of course, perhaps that is my vanity again. Perhaps my loss was as he liked it. After all, a life in exile might be the worst torture he could devise.

And it _is_ torture, Doctor: torture of a kind no Order training or device can alter.

But of course, nothing more than I have earned.

And even Tain is gone now. No one is looking for me. No one knows they should be. No one outside the borders of mine and Kelas’s house, I think, cares one jot.

I do wonder sometimes if _you_ care. I wonder what books you’re reading or if you find yourself craving _civit_ on occasion. I wonder if you ever think of contacting Kelas. If you ever think of me. I accept, of course, that I might not be pleased by the thoughts I engender.

I fill my days now with such lazy wonderings. That and my garden.

I won’t say much of this world on which we’ve settled: a man of your intellect would puzzle out the location with only the sparest of clues. But I will say that it is an astonishingly fertile place. Parmak spends his days helping the local doctors: I spend my days on the patch of land outside our home.

The soil here is like nothing I’ve seen. Black and moist and, at times, it seems like the magical sack from Mherin’s tale—always opening to provide whatever is needed. An old woman from the town nearby introduced me to a species of orchid that grows here, and I have planted a large bed behind the house. They grow with ease. It is wonderful to sit among them. Wonderful and terrible. _Vrakat._

It makes me think of you. I hope the soil wherever you’ve planted yourself, Doctor, is as forgiving.

As for me, I am beginning to believe that, while I live in paradise, I was not made for it.

There’s a bag at the back of our closet. There isn’t much inside. A padd. Some latinum. Sundries which might be used or traded with equal ease. A copy of _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ , which, I admit, I couldn’t leave behind.

Kelas doesn’t ask about it—doesn’t need to, I think.

Each morning, I revisit it. I lift it and feel its weight and let myself imagine where I might take it. What I might do.

Sometimes I dare to imagine myself back in Cardassia’s orbit, drinking in the beauty of her shape, come what may. Kelas tells me that there’s been an uprising and that some of his dissident fellows have seized control. He does not seem pleased, however, and they have not recalled Ghemor. I fear it is a sad story to which I already know the ending.

You will no doubt smile to hear that my enchantment with the repetitive epic isn’t what it once was. I find myself craving a new ending.

Sometimes, when I lift that bag, I think of you. I think of arriving at that station—Cardassian on the outside, but, on the inside, transformed. Just like me, perhaps. I imagine opening a shop. Or helping the Federation keep the Klingons at bay. I think of asking you to dinner, Doctor. Of listening to you berate me for my choice in literature. I think of bringing Kelas along.

And how should I presume? And how should I begin?

Yes, Doctor, I read the poem you recommended to me that day in the library. And you were right, I enjoyed it, though I must say I doubt a man of your youth could fully understand it. At its heart, it is a song to middle age, a place you have yet to visit.

Perhaps you would disagree. I would enjoy that, I think. I would love to hear your thoughts.

But I do not think, Doctor, that you will sing to me.

In the end, I always put the bag away and return to my garden. As much as I long for that ending, I know my place is here. I must work to earn Kelas’s forgiveness. To repay my debts. I must sit among my orchids and wonder and think. I was buried for so very long, Doctor. I must grow accustomed to the free and open air.

I do hope, however, that some day Kelas and I will leave this paradise.

I do hope that we will see one another again.

I hope, but I cannot say. After all, we live in uncertain times.

              Yours,

Elim Garak

_[unsent]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I hope that this ending, while not a happily ever after, can be of the choose-your-own-adventure variety. 
> 
> The poem mentioned here and by Bashir in Chapter 9 (in case anyone isn’t familiar with it) is [The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock) by T.S. Eliot. It happens to be one of my favorites, and it was too good a fit to pass up. 
> 
> I very truly hope everyone enjoyed this conclusion. I am more grateful than I can say to everyone who has read along with me on this thing, and, what’s more, taken the time to share their thoughts and feelings and reactions as well. This has been a wonderful ride, and so much of it has been because of the kindness and generosity of all of you. 
> 
> Please do let me know what you think, as you feel moved to do so. 
> 
> THANK YOU!  
> -AlphaCygni

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Proof](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644676) by [jellyfishfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishfire/pseuds/jellyfishfire)




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